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Historical Tales 


The Romance of Reality 


BY 

CHARLES MORRIS 

t & 

AUTHOR OF “HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AMERICAN 
AUTHORS,” “TALES FROM THE DRAMATISTS,” “KING 
ARTHUR AND THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND-TABLE,” ETC. 


ENGLISH 


PH IL A DELP HIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1897 


A A 




Copyright, 1893, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


By transfe* 

APR 6 1915 



Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

How England became Christian. 7 

The Wooing op Elfrida. 17 

King Alfred and the Danes. 30 

The End of Saxon England . .. 45 

Hereward the Wake. 57 

Death of the Red King. 72 

How the White Ship Sailed. 80 

The Captivity of Richard Cceur de Lion .... 87 

A Contest for a Crown.100 

Robin Hood and the Knight of the Rueful Coun¬ 
tenance .113 

Wallace, the Hero of Scotland.127 

Bruce at Bannockburn.139 

The Siege of Calais.151 

The Black Prince at Poitiers.163 

Wat Tyler and the Men of Kent.174 

The White Rose of England.185 

The Eield of the Cloth of Gold.201 

The Story of Arabella Stuart.215 

Love’s Knight-Errant.227 

The Taking of Pontefract Castle.247 

The Adventures of a Royal Fugitive.260 

Cromwell and the Parliament.280 

The Relief of Londonderry.288 

The Hunting of Braemar.297 

The Flight of Prince Charles.306 

Trafalgar and the Death of Nelson.320 

The Massacre of an Army.329 


3 





























LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


ENGLISH. 

PAGE 

Canterbury Cathedral. {Frontispiece). 

■'Scene on the River Avon. 31 

Ely Cathedral.65 

' Statue of Richard Cceur de Lion. 97 

' The Wallace Monument, Stirling.133 

* Stirling Castle.149 

Church of Notre Dame, Poitiers.167 

Henry the Eighth.207 

V' The Royal Palace, Madrid.239 

Oliver Cromwell.281 

Edinburgh Castle.301 

The Old Temeraire.321 



















HOW ENGLAND BECAME 
CHRISTIAN. 


One day, in the far-off sixth century, a youthful 
deacon of the Roman Church walked into the slave- 
market of Rome, situated at one extremity of the an¬ 
cient Forum. Gregory, his name; his origin from an 
ancient noble family, whose genealogy could be traced 
back to the days of the early Caesars. A youth was 
this of imperial powers of mind, one who, had he 
lived when Rome was mistress of the physical world, 
might have become emperor; but who, living when 
Rome had risen to lordship over the spiritual world, 
became pope,—the famous Gregory the Great. 

In the Forum the young deacon saw that which 
touched his sympathetic soul. Here cattle were being 
sold ; there, men. His eyes were specially attracted 
by a group of youthful slaves, of aspect such as ho 
had never seen before. They were bright of com¬ 
plexion, their hair long and golden,'their expression 
of touching innocence. Their fair faces were 
strangely unlike the embrowned complexions to 
which he had been accustomed, and he stood looking 
at them in admiration, while the slave-dealers ex¬ 
tolled their beauty of face and figure. 


7 


H 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


“ From what country do these young men come ?” 
asked Gregory. 

“ They are English, Angles,” answered the dealers. 

“ Not Angles, but angels,” said the deacon, with a 
feeling of poetic sentiment, “ for they have angel¬ 
like faces. From what country come they?” ho 
repeated. 

“They come from Deira,” said the merchants. 

“ De ira ,” he rejoined, fervently; “ay, plucked 
from God’s ire and called to Christ’s mercy. And 
what is the name of their king ?” 

“ Ella,” was the answer. 

“ Alleluia shall be sung there!” cried the enthusi¬ 
astic young monk, his imagination touched by the 
significance of these answers. He passed on, musing 
on the incident which had deeply stirred his sym¬ 
pathies, and considering how the light of Christianity 
could be shed upon the pagan lands whence these 
fair strangers came. 

It was a striking picture which surrounded that 
slave-market. From where the young deacon stood 
could be seen the capitol of ancient Rome and the 
grand proportions of its mighty Coliseum; not far 
away the temple of Jupiter Stator displayed its 
magnificent columns, and other Btately edifices of 
the imperial city came within the circle of vision. 
Rome had ceased to be the mistress of the world, 
but it was not yet in ruins, and many of its noble 
edifices still stood almost in perfection. But paganism 
had vanished. The cross of Christ was the dominant 
symbol. The march of the warriors of the legions 
was replaced by long processions of cowled and 


HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. 


9 


solemn monks. The temporal imperialism of Rome 
had ceased, the spiritual had begun; instead of 
armies to bring the world under the dominion of the 
sword, that ancient city now sent out its legions of 
monks to bring it under the dominion of the cross. 

Gregory resolved to be one of the latter. A fair 
new field for missionary labor lay in that distant 
island, peopled by pagans whose aspect promised to 
make them noble subjects of Christ’s kingdom upon 
earth. The enthusiastic youth left Rome to seek 
Saxon England, moved thereto not by desire of 
earthly glory, but of heavenly reward. But this 
was not to be. His friends deemed that he was 
going to death, and begged the pope to order his 
return. Gregory was brought back and England 
remained pagan. 

Years went by. The humble deacon rose to be 
bishop of Rome and head of the Christian world. 
Gregory the Great, men named him, though he styled 
himself “ Servant of the Lord’s servants,” and lived 
in like humility and simplicity of style as when he 
was a poor monk. 

The time at length came to which Gregory had 
looked forward. Ethelbert, king of Kentish Eng¬ 
land, married Bertha, daughter of the French king 
Charibert, a fervent Christian woman. A few priests 
came with her to England, and the king gave them 
a ruined Christian edifice, the Church of St. Martin, 
outside the walls of Canterbury, for their worship. 
But it was overshadowed by a pagan temple, and 
the worship of Odin and Thoi still dominated Saxon 
England. 


10 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Gregory took quick advantage of this opportunity. 
The fair faces of the English slaves still appealed to 
his pitying soul, and he now sent Augustine, prior 
of St. Andrew’s at Eome, with a band of forty 
monks as missionaries to England. It was the year 
of our Lord 597. The missionaries landed at the 
very spot where Hengist the Saxon conqueror had 
landed more than a century before. The one had 
brought the sword to England, the others brought 
the cross. King Ethelbert knew of their coming 
and had agreed to receive them; but, by the advice 
of his priests, who feared conjuration and spells of 
magic, he gave them audience in the open air, where 
such spells have less power. The place was on the 
chalk-down above Minster, whence, miles away across 
the intervening marshes, one may to-day behold the 
distant tower of Canterbury cathedral. 

The scene, as pictured to us in the monkish chron¬ 
icles, was a picturesque and inspiring one. The hill 
selected for the meeting overlooked the ocean. King 
Ethelbert, with Queen Bertha by his side, awaited in 
state his visitors. Around were grouped the warriors 
of Kent and the priests of Odin. Silence reigned, and 
in the distance the monks could be seen advancing 
in solemn procession, singing as they came. He who 
came first bore a large silver crucifix. Another car¬ 
ried a banner with the painted image of Christ. 
The deep and solemn music, the venerable and peace¬ 
ful aspect of the strangers, the solemnity of the oc¬ 
casion, touched the heart of Ethelbert, already favor¬ 
ably inclined, as we may believe, to the faith of his 
loved wife. 


HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. 1] 

Augustine had brought interpreters from Gaul. 
By their aid he conveyed to the king the message he 
had been sent to bring. Ethelbert listened in silence, 
the queen in rapt attention, the warriors and priests 
doubtless with varied sentiments. The appeal of 
Augustine at an end, Ethelbert spoke. 

“ Your words are fair,” he said, “ but they are new, 
and of doubtful meaning. For myself, I propose to 
worship still the gods of my fathers. But you bring 
peace and good words; you are welcome to my 
kingdom; while you stay here you shall have shelter 
and protection.” 

His land was a land of plenty, he told them; food, 
drink, and lodging should be theirs, and none should 
do them wrong; England should be their home while 
they chose to stay. 

With these words the audience ended. Augustine 
and his monks fell again into procession, and, with 
singing of psalms and display of holy emblems, 
moved solemnly towards the city of Canterbury, 
where Bertha’s church awaited them. As they en¬ 
tered the city they sang: 

“ Turn from this city, O Lord, thine anger and 
wrath, and turn it from Thy holy house, for we have 
sinned.” Then Gregory’s joyful cry of “Alleluia! 
Alleluia!” burst from their devout lips, as they moved 
into the first English church. 

The work of the “ strangers from Borne” proceeded 
but slowly. Some converts were made, but Ethel¬ 
bert held aloof. Fortunately for Augustine, he had 
an advocate in the palace, one with near and dear 
speech in the king’s ear. We cannot doubt that the 


12 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


gentle influence of Queen Bertha was a leading power 
in Ethelbert’s conversion. A year passed. At its 
end the king gave way. On the day of Pentecost ho 
was baptized. Christ had succeeded Odin and Thor 
on the throne of the English heart, for the story of 
the king’s conversion carried his kingdom with it. The 
men of Kent, hearing that their king had adopted the 
new faith, crowded the banks of the Swale, eager fbr 
baptism. The under-kings of Essex and East-Anglia 
became Christians. On the succeeding Cliristmas- 
day ten thousand of the people followed the example 
of their king. The new faith spread with wonder¬ 
ful rapidity throughout the kingdom of Kent. 

When word of this great event reached Pope 
Gregory at Pome his heart was filled with joy. He 
exultingly wrote to a friend that his missionaries- 
had spread the religion of Christ “ in the most re¬ 
mote parts of the world,” and at once appointed Au¬ 
gustine archbishop of Canterbury and primate of all 
England, that he might complete the work he had 
so promisingly begun. Such is the story of the 
Christianizing of England as told in the ancient 
chronicle of the venerable Bede, the earliest of Eng¬ 
lish writers. 

As yet only Kent had been converted. North of 
it lay the kingdom of Northumbria, still a pagan 
realm. The story of its conversion, as told by Bede, 
is of no less interest than that just related. Edwin 
was its king, a man of great ability for that early 
day. His prowess is shown in a proverb: “ A 
woman with her babe might walk scathless from 
sea to sea in Edwin’s day.” The highways, long 


HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. 13 

made dangerous by outlaw and ruthless warrior, were 
now safe avenues of travel; the springs by the road¬ 
side were marked by stakes, while brass cups beside 
them awaited the traveller’s hand. Edwin ruled over 
all northern England, as Ethelbert did over the 
south. Edinburgh was within his dominions, and 
from him it had its name,—Edwin’s burgh, the city 
of Edwin. 

Christianity came to this monarch’s heart in some 
such manner as it had reached that of Ethelbert, 
through the appealing influence of his wife. A 
daughter of King Ethelbert had come to share his 
throne. She, like Bertha her mother, was a Chris¬ 
tian. With her came the monk Paulinus, from the 
church at Canterbury. He was a man of striking 
aspect,—of tall and stooping form, slender, aquiline 
nose, and thin, worn face, round which fell long black 
hair. The ardent missionary, aided doubtless by the 
secret appeals of the queen, soon produced an influ¬ 
ence upon the intelligent mind of Edwin. The mon¬ 
arch called a council of his wise men, to talk with 
them about the new doctrine which had been taught 
in his realm. Of what passed at that council we 
have but one short speech, but it is one that illumi¬ 
nates it as no other words could have done, a lessor* 
in prose which is full of the finest spirit of poetry, 
perhaps the most picturesque image of human life 
that has ever been put into words. 

“ So seems to me the life of man, O king,” said 
an aged noble, “as a sparrow’s flight through the 
hall when you are sitting at meat in winter-tide, 
with the warm fire lighted on the hearth, while out- 

2 


14 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


side all is storm of rain and snow. The sparrow 
flies in at one door, and tarries for a moment in the 
light and heat of the fire within, and then, flying 
forth from the other, vanishes into the wintry dark¬ 
ness whence it came. So the life of man tarries for 
a moment in our sight; but of what went before it, 
or what is to follow it, we know nothing. If this 
new teaching tells us something more certain of 
these things, let us follow it.” 

Such an appeal could not but have a powerful 
effect upon bis hearers. Those were days when men 
were more easily moved by sentiment than by argu¬ 
ment. Edwin and his councillors heard with favoring 
ears. Hot last among them was Coifi, chief priest 
of the idol-worship, whose ardent soul was stirred 
by the words of the old thane. 

“ Hone of your people, King Edwin, have wor¬ 
shipped the gods more busily than I,” he said, “ yet 
there are many who have been more favored and are 
more fortunate. Were these gods good for anything 
they would help their worshippers.” 

Grasping his spear, the irate priest leaped on his 
horse, and riding at full speed towards the temple 
sacred to the heathen gods, he hurled the warlike 
weapon furiously into its precincts. 

The lookers-on, nobles and commons alike, beheld 
his act with awe, in doubt if the deities of their old 
worship would not avenge with death this insult to 
their fane. Yet all remained silent; no thunders 
rent the skies; the desecrating priest sat his horse 
unharmed. When, then, he bade them follow him 
to the neighboring stream, to be baptized in its 


HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN. 15 

waters into the new faith, an eager multitude crowded 
upon his steps. 

The spot where Edwin and his followers were bap¬ 
tized is thus described by Camden, in his “ Descrip 
lion of Great Britain,” etc.: “ In the Roman times, 

not far from its bank upon the little river Foulness 
(where Wighton, a small town, but well-stocked 
with husbandmen, now stands), there seems to have 
formerly stood Delgovitia; as it is probable both 
from the likeness and the signification of the name. 
For the British word Delgwe (or rather Ddelvd) 
signifies the statues or images of the heathen gods; 
and in a little village not far off there stood an 
idol-temple, which was in very great honor in the 
Saxon times, and, from the heathen gods in it, was 
then called Godmundingham, and now, in the same 
sense, Godmanham.” It was into this temple that 
Coifi flung his desecrating spear, and in this stream 
that Edwin the king received Christian baptism. 

But Christianity did not win England without a 
struggle. After the death of Ethelbert and Edwin, 
paganism revived and fought hard for the mastery. 
The Roman monks lost their energy, and were con¬ 
fined to the vicinity of Canterbury. Conversion 
came again, but from the west instead of the east, 
from Ireland instead of Rome. 

Christianity had been received with enthusiasm in 
Erin’s isle. Less than half a century after the death 
of St. Patrick, the first missionary, flourishing Chris¬ 
tian schools existed at Darrow and Armagh, letters 
and the arts were cultivated, and missionaries were 
leaving the shores of Ireland to carry the faith else- 


16 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


where. From the famous monastery which they 
founded at Iona, on the west coast of Scotland, 
came the new impulse which gave Christianity its 
fixed footing in England, and finally drove paganism 
from Britain’s shores. Oswald, of Northumbria, be¬ 
came the bulwark of the new faith ; Penda, of Mercia, 
the sword of heathendom; and a long struggle for 
religion and dominion ensued between these warlike 
chiefs. Oswald was slain in battle; Penda led his 
conquering host far into the Christian realm; but a 
new king, Oswi by name, overthrew Penda and his 
army in a great defeat, and the worship of the older 
gods in England was at an end. But a half-century 
of struggle and bloodshed passed before the victory 
of Christ over Odin was fully won. 


THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA. 


Of all the many fair maidens of the Saxon realm 
none bore such fame for beauty as the charming 
Elfrida, daughter of the earl of Devonshire, and 
the rose of southern England. She had been edu¬ 
cated in the country and had never been seen in 
London, but the report of her charms of face and 
person spread so widely that all the land became 
filled with the tale. 

It soon reached the court and came to the ears of 
Edgar, the king, a youthful monarch who had an 
open ear for all tales of maidenly beauty. Ife was 
yet but little more than a boy, was unmarried, and 
a born lover. The praises of this country charmer, 
therefore, stirred his susceptible heart. She was 
nobly born, the heiress to an earldom, the very rose 
of English maidens,—what better consort for the 
throne could be found ? If report spoke true, this 
was the maiden he should choose for wife, this fair¬ 
est flower of the Saxon realm. But rumor grows 
apace, and common report is not to be trusted. Edgar 
thought it the part of discretion to make sure of the 
beauty of the much-lauded Elfrida before making 
a formal demand for her hand in marriage. 

Devonshire was far away, roads few and poor in 
ii .—b 2* 17 


\8 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Si. xon England, travel slow and wearisome, and the 
kir g had no taste for the journey to the castle of 
Olgur of Devon. Nor did he deem it wise to declare 
his intention till he made sure that the maiden was to 
his liking. He, therefore, spoke of his purpose to 
Earl Athelwold, his favorite, whom he bade to pay 
a visit, on some pretence, to Earl Olgar of Devon¬ 
shire, to see his renowned daughter, and to bring to 
the court a certain account concerning her beauty. 

Athelwold went to Devonshire, saw the lady, and 
proved faithless to his trust. Love made him a 
traitor, as it has made many before and since his 
day. So marvellously beautiful he found Elfrida 
that his heart fell prisoner to the most vehement 
love, a passion so ardent that it drove all thoughts 
of honor and fidelity from his soul, and he deter¬ 
mined to have this charming lass of Devonshire for 
his own, despite king or commons. 

Athelwold’s high station had secured him a warm 
welcome from his brother earl. He acquitted him¬ 
self of his pretended mission to Olgar, basked as 
long as prudence permitted in the sunlight of his 
lady’s eyes, and, almost despite himself, made mani¬ 
fest to Elfrida the sudden passion that had filled his 
soul. The maiden took it not amiss. Athelwold 
was young, handsome, rich, and high in station, 
Elfrida susceptible and ambitious, and he returned 
to London not without hope that he had favorably 
impressed the lady’s heart, and filled with the faith 
less purpose of deceiving the king. 

“You have seen and noted her, Athelwold,” said 
Edgar, on giving him audience ) “ what have you 


THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA. 


19 


to say ? Has report spoken truly ? Is she indeed 
the marvellous beauty that rumor tells, or has fame, 
the liar, played us one of his old tricks ?” 

“ Hot altogether; the woman is not bad-looking,” 
said Athelwold, with studied lack of enthusiasm; 
“ but I fear that high station and a pretty face have 
combined to bewitch the people. Certainly, if she 
had been of low birth, her charms would never have 
been heard of outside her native village.” 

“ I’ faith, Athelwold, you are not warm in your 
praise of this queen of beauty,” said Edgar, with 
some disappointment. “ Eumor, then, has lied, and 
Bhe is but an every-day woman, after all ?” 

“Beauty has a double origin,” answered Athel- 
w T old; “ it lies partly in the face seen, partly in the 
eyes seeing. Some might go mad over this Elfrida, 
but to my taste London affords fairer faces. I speak 
but for myself. Should you see her you might think 
differently.” 

Athelwold had managed his story shrewdly; the 
king’s ardor grew cold. 

“ If the matter stands thus, he that wants her 
may have her,” said Edgar. “The diamond that 
fails to show its lustre in all candles is not the gem 
for my wearing. Confess, Athelwold, you are trying 
to overpaint this woman; you found only an ordi¬ 
nary face.” 

“I saw nothing in it extraordinary,” answered 
the faithless envoy. “ Some might, perhaps. I can 
only speak for myself. As I take it, Elfrida’s noble 
birth and her father s wealth, which will come to 
her as sole heiress, have had their share in painting 


20 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


this rose. The woman may have beauty enough 
for a countess ; hardly enough for a queen.” 

“ Then you should have wooed and won her your¬ 
self,” said Edgar, laughing “ Such a faintly-praised 
charmer is not for me. I leave her for a lower-born 
lover.” 

Several days passed. Athelwold had succeeded in 
his purpose; the king had evidently been cured of 
his fancy for Elfrida. The way was open for the 
next step in his deftly-laid scheme. He took it by 
turning the conversation, in a later interview, upon 
the Devon maiden. 

“ I have been thinking over your remark, that I 
should woo and win Elfrida myself,” he said. “ It 
seems to me not a bad idea. I must confess that the 
birth and fortune of the lady added no beauty to her 
in my eyes, as it seems to have done in those of 
others; yet I cannot but think that the woman 
would make a suitable match for me. She is an earl’s 
daughter, and she will inherit great wealth ; these are 
advantages which fairly compensate some lack of 
beauty. I have decided, therefore, sire, if I can gain 
your approbation, to ask Olgar for his daughter’s 
hand. I fancy I can gain her consent if I have his.” 

“ I shall certainly not stand in your way,” said the 
king, pleased with the opportunity to advance his 
favorite’s fortunes. “ By all means do as you propose. 
I will give you letters to the earl and his lady, re¬ 
commending the match. You must trust to yourself 
to make your way with the maiden.” 

“ I think she is not quite displeased with me,” 
answered Athelwold. 


THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA. 


21 


What followed few words may tell. The passion 
of love in Athelwold’s heart had driven out all con¬ 
siderations of honor and duty, of the good faith he 
owed the king, and of the danger of his false and 
treacherous course. Warm with hope, he returned 
with a lover’s haste to Devonshire, where he gained 
the approval of the earl and countess, won the hand 
and seemingly the heart of their beautiful daughter, 
and was speedily united to the lady of his love, and 
became for the time being the happiest man in Eng¬ 
land. 

But before the honey-moon was well over, the faith¬ 
less friend and subject realized that he had a difficult 
and dangerous part to play. He did not dare let 
Edgar see his wife, for fear of the instant detection 
of his artifice, and he employed every pretence to keep 
her in the country. His duties at the court brought 
him frequently to London, but with the skill at ex¬ 
cuses he had formerly shown he contrived to satisfy 
for the time the queries of the king and the impor¬ 
tunities of his wife, who had a natural desire to visit 
the capital and to shine at the king’s court. 

Athelwold was sailing between Scyllaand Charyb- 
dis. He could scarcely escape being wrecked on the 
rocks of his own falsehood. The enemies who always 
surround a royal favorite were not long in surmising 
the truth, and lost no time in acquainting Edgar 
with their suspicions. Confirmation was not wanting. 
There were those in London who had seen Elfrida. 
The king’s eyes were opened to the treacherous arti¬ 
fice of which he had been made the victim. 

Edgar was deeply incensed, but artfully concealed 


22 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


his anger. Reflection, too, told him that these men 
were Athelwold’s enemies, and that the man he had 
loved and trusted ought not to be condemned on the 
insinuations of his foes. He would satisfy himself if 
his favorite had played the traitor, and if so would 
visit him with the punishment he deserved. 

“Athelwold,” said Edgar, in easy tones, “I am 
surprised you do not bring your wife to court. Surely 
the woman, if she is true woman, must crave to 
come.” 

“Hot she,” answered Athelwold. “She loves the 
country well and is a pattern of the rural virtues. 
The woman is homely and home-loving, and I should 
be sorry to put new ideas in her rustic pate. More¬ 
over, I fear my little candle would shine too poorly 
among your courtly stars to offer her in contrast.” 

“ Fie on you, man! the wife of Athelwold cannot 
be quite a milkmaid. If you will not bring her here, 
then I must pay you a visit in your castle; I like 
you too well not to know and like your wife.” 

This proposition of the king filled Athelwold with 
terror and dismay. He grew pale, and hesitatingly 
sought to dissuade Edgar from his project, but in 
vain. The king had made up his mind, and laugh¬ 
ingly told him that he could not rest till he had seen 
the homely housewife whom Athelwold was afraid 
to trust in court. 

“ I feel the honor you would do me,” at length 
remarked the dismayed favorite. “ I only ask, sire, 
that you let me go before you a few hours, that my 
castle may be properly prepared for a visit from my 
king.” 


THE WOOING OF ELFHIDA. 


23 


“ As you will, gossip,” laughed the king. “ Away 
with you, then; I will soon follow.” 

In all haste the traitor sought his castle, quaking 
with fear, and revolving in his mind schemes for 
avoiding the threatened disclosure. He could think 
of but one that promised success, and that depended 
on the love and compliance of Elfrida. He had de¬ 
ceived her. He must tell her the truth. With her 
aid his faithless action might still be concealed. 

Entering his castle, he sought Elfrida and revealed 
to her the whole measure of his deceit, how he had 
won her from the king, led by his overpowering love, 
how he had kept her from the king’s eyes, and how 
Edgar now, filled, he feared, with suspicion, was on 
his way to the castle to see her for himself. 

In moving accents the wretched man appealed to 
her, if she had any regard for his honor and his life, 
to conceal from the king that fatal beauty which 
had lured him from his duty to his friend and mon¬ 
arch, and led him into endless falsehoods. He had 
but his love to offer as a warrant for his double faith¬ 
lessness, and implored Elfrida, as she returned his 
affection, to lend her aid to his exculpation. If sho 
loved him as she seemed, she would put on her home¬ 
liest attire, employ the devices of the toilette to hide 
her fatal beauty, and assume an awkward and rustic 
tone and manner, that the king might be deceived. 

Elfrida heard him in silence, her face scarcely con¬ 
cealing the indignation which burned in her soul on 
learning the artifice by which she had been robbed 
of a crown. In the end, however, she seemed moved 
by his entreaties and softened by his love, and prom* 


24 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


ised to comply with his wishes and do her utmost 
to conceal her charms. 

Gratified with this compliance, and full of hope 
that all would yet be safe, Athelwold completed his 
preparations for the reception of the king, and met 
him on his appearance with every show of honor 
and respect. Edgar seemed pleased by his reception, 
entered the castle, but was not long there before he 
asked to see its lady, saying merrily that she had 
been the loadstone that had drawn him thither, and 
that he was eager to behold her charming face. 

“ I fear I have little of beauty and grace to show 
you,” answered Athelwold ; “ but she is a good wife 
withal, and I love her for virtues which few would 
call courtly.” 

He turned to a servant and bade him ask his mis¬ 
tress to come to the castle hall, where the king 
expected her. 

Athelwold waited with hopeful eyes; the king 
with curious expectation. The husband knew how 
unattractive a toilet his wife could make if she 
would; Edgar was impatient to test for himself the 
various reports he had received concerning this wild 
rose of Devonshire. 

The lady entered. The hope died from Athel- 
wold’s eyes; the pallor of death overspread his face. 
A sudden light flashed into the face of the king, a 
glow made up of passion and anger. For instead 
of the ill-dressed and awkward country housewife 
for whom Athelwold looked, there beamed upon all *, 
present a woman of regal beauty, clad in her richest 
attire, her charms of face and person set off with aD 


THE WOOING 01' ELFRIDA. 


25 


the adornment that jewels and laces could bestow, 
her face blooming into its most engaging smile as 
she greeted the king. 

She had deceived her trusting husband. His story 
of treachery had driven from her heart all the love 
for him that ever dwelt there. He had robbed her 
of a throne ; she vowed revenge in her soul; it might 
be hers yet; with the burning instinct of ambition 
she had adorned herself to the utmost, hoping to 
punish her faithless lord and win the king. 

She succeeded. While Athelwold stood by, biting 
his lips, striving to bring back the truant blood to his 
face, making hesitating remarks to his guest, and 
turning eyes of deadly anger on his wife, the scheming 
woman was using her most engaging arts of conver¬ 
sation and manner to win the king, and with a suc¬ 
cess greater than she knew. Edgar beheld her 
beauty with surprise and joy, his heart throbbing 
with ardent passion. She was all and more than he 
had been told. Athelwold had basely deceived him, 
and his new-born love for the wife was mingled with 
a fierce desire for revenge upon the husband. But 
the artful monarch dissembled both these passions. 
He was, to a certain extent, in Athelwold’s power. 
His train was not large, and those were days in which 
an angry or jealous thane would not hesitate to lift 
his hand against a king. He, therefore, affected not to 
be struck with Elfrida’s beauty, was gracious as usual 
to his host, and seemed the most agreeable of guests. 

But passion was burning in his heart, the double 
passion of love and revenge. A day or two of this 
play of kingly clemency passed, then Athelwold and 
b 3 


26 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


his guests went to hunt in the neighboring forest, and 
in the heat of the chase Edgar gained the opportunity 
he desired. He stabbed his unsuspecting host in the 
back, left him dead on the field, and rode back to the 
castle to declare his love to the suddenly-widowed 
wife. 

Elfrida had won the game for which she had so 
heartlessly played. Ambition in her soul outweighed 
such love as she bore for Athelwold, and she received 
with gracious welcome the king whose hands were 
still red from the murder of her late spouse. No 
long time passed before Edgar and Elfrida were pub¬ 
licly married, and the love romance which had dis¬ 
tinguished the life of the famed beauty of Devonshire 
reached its consummation. 

This romantic story has a sequel which tells still 
less favorably for the Devonshire beauty. She had 
compassed the murder of her husband. It was not 
her last crime. Edgar died when her son Ethelred 
was but seven years of age. The king had left 
another son, Edward, by his first wife, now fifteen 
years old. The ambitious woman plotted for the 
elevation of her son to the throne, hoping, doubtless, 
herself to reign as regent. The people favored 
Edward, as the rightful heir, and the nobility and 
clergy, who feared the imperious temper of Elfrida, 
determined to thwart her schemes. To put an end 
to the matter, Dunstan the monk, the all-powerful 
king-maker of that epoch, had the young prince 
anointed and crowned. The whole kingdom sup¬ 
ported his act, and the hopes of Elfrida were seem¬ 
ingly at an end. 


THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA. 


27 


But she was a woman not to be easily defeated. 
She bided her time, and affected warm regard for the 
youthful king, who loved her as if he had been her 
own son, and displayed the most tender affection for 
his brother. Edward, indeed, was a character out 
of tone with those rude tenth-century days, when 
might was right, and murder was often the first step 
to a throne. He was of the utmost innocence of 
heart and amiability of manners, so pure in his own 
thoughts that suspicion of others found no place in 
his soul. 

One day, four years after his accession, he was 
hunting in a forest in Dorsetshire, not far from 
Corfe-castle, where Elfrida and Ethelred lived. The 
chances of the chase led him to the vicinity of the 
castle, and, taking advantage of the opportunity to 
see its loved inmates, he rode away from his attend¬ 
ants, and in the evening twilight sounded his hunting- 
horn at the castle gates. 

This was the opportunity which the ambitious 
woman had desired. The rival of her son had put 
himself unattended within her reach. Hastily pre¬ 
paring for the reception she designed to give him, 
she came from the castle, smiling a greeting. 

“ You are heartily welcome, dear king and son,” 
she said. “ Pray dismount and enter.” 

“ Hot so, dear madam,” he replied. “ My company 
will miss me, and fear I have met with some harm. 
I pray you give me a cup of wine, that I may drink 
in the saddle to you and my little brother. I would 
stay longer, but may not linger.” 

Elfrida returned for the wine, and as she did so 


28 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


whispered a few words to an armed man in the castle 
hall, one of her attendants whom she could trust. 
As she went on, this man slipped out in the gathering 
gloom and placed himself close behind the king’s 
horse. 

In a minute more Elfrida reappeared, wine-cup in 
hand. The king took the cup and raised it to his lips, 
looking down with smiling face on his step-mother 
and her son, who smiled their love-greeting back to 
him. At this instant the lurking villain in the rear 
sprang up and buried his fatal knife in the king’s 
back. 

Filled with pain and horror, Edward involuntarily 
dropped the cup and spurred his horse. The startled 
animal sprang forward, Edward clinging to his saddle 
for a few minutes, but soon, faint with loss of blood, 
falling to the earth, while one of his feet remained 
fast in the stirrup. 

The frightened horse rushed onward, dragging him 
over the rough ground until death put an end to his 
misery. The hunters, seeking the king, found the 
track of his blood, and traced him till his body was 
discovered, sadly torn and disfigured. 

Meanwhile, the child Ethelred cried out so pitifully 
at the frightful tragedy which had taken place before 
his eyes, that his heartless mother turned her rage 
against him. She snatched a torch from one of the 
attendants and beat him unmercifully for his uncon¬ 
trollable emotion. 

The woman a second time had won her game,— 
first, by compassing the murder of her husband; 
second, by ordering the murder of her step-son. It 


THE WOOING OP ELFRIDA 


29 


is pleasant to say that she profited little by the latter 
base deed. The people were incensed by the murder 
of the king, and Dunstan resolved that Ethelred 
should not have the throne. He offered it to Edgitha, 
the daughter of Edgar. But that lady wisely pre¬ 
ferred to remain in the convent where she lived in 
peace; so, in default of any other heir, Ethelred was 
put upon the throne,—Ethelred the Unready, as he 
came afterwards to be known. 

Elfrida at first possessed great influence over her 
son ; but her power declined as he grew older, and in 
the end she retired from the court, built monasteries 
and performed penances, in hopes of providing a 
refuge for her pious soul in heaven, since all men hated 
her upon the earth. 

As regards Edward, his tragical death so aroused 
the sympathy of the people that they named him 
the Martyr, and believed that miracles were wrought 
at his tomb. It cannot be said that his murder was 
in any sense a martyrdom, but the men of that day 
did not draw fine lines of distinction, and Edward 
the Martyr he remains. 


KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 


In his royal villa at Chippenham, on the left bank 
of the gently-flowing Avon, sat King Alfred, buried 
in his books. It was the evening of the 6th of Jan¬ 
uary, in the year 878, a thousand years and more 
backward in time. The first of English kings to 
whom a book had a meaning,—and the last for cen¬ 
turies afterwards,—Alfred, the young monarch, had 
an insatiable thirst for knowledge, a thirst then diffi¬ 
cult to quell, for books were almost as rare as gold¬ 
mines in that day. When a mere child, his mother 
had brought to him and his brothers a handsomely 
illuminated book, saying,— 

“ I will give this to that one of you four princes 
who first learns to read.” 

Alfred won the book; so far as we know, he alone 
sought to win it, for the art of reading in those early 
times was confined to monks, and disdained by 
princes. Ignorance lay like a dismal cloud over 
England, ignorance as dense as the heart of the 
Dark Ages knew. In the whole land the young 
prince was almost alone in his thirst for knowledge ; 
and when he made an effort to study Latin, in which 
language all worthy literature was then written, 
there could not be found throughout the length and 
30 


SCENE ON THE RIVER AVON. 


















KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 31 

breadth of the land a man competent to teach him 
that sealed tongue. 

When little more than a boy Alfred became king. 
There was left him then little time for study, for the 
Danes, whose ships had long been descending in 
annual raids on England’s shores, gave the youthful 
monarch an abundance of more active service. For 
years he fought them, yet in his desjnte Guthrum, 
one of their ablest chiefs, sailed up the Severn, 
seized upon a wide region of the realm of Wessex, 
made Gloucester his capital, and defied the feebly- 
supported English king. 

It was midwinter now, a season which the Danes 
usually spent in rest and revelry, and in which Eng¬ 
land gained some relief from their devastating raids. 
Alfred, dreaming of aught but war, was at home 
with his slender store of much-beloved books in his 
villa at Chippenham. With him were a few of his 
thanes and a small body of armed attendants, their 
enjoyment the pleasures of the chase and the rude 
sports of that early period. Doubtless, what they 
deemed the womanish or monkish tastes of their 
young monarch were objects of scorn and ridicule to 
those hardy thanes, upon whom ignorance lay like a 
thick garment. Yet Alfred could fight as well as 
read. They might disdain his pursuits; they must 
respect his prowess. 

While the king lay thus in ease at Chippenham, his 
enemies at Gloucester seemed lost in enjoyment of 
their spoils. Guthrum had divided the surrounding 
lands among his victorious followers, the Saxons had 
been driven out, slain, or enslaved, and the brutal 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


and barbarous victors dwelt in peace and revelry on 
their new lands, spending the winter in riot and 
wassail, and waiting for the spring-time budding of 
the trees to renew the war with their Saxon foes. 

Not so with Guthrum. He had sworn revenge on 
the Saxons. Years before, his father, a mighty chief¬ 
tain, Ragnar by name, had fallen in a raid on Eng¬ 
land. His sons had vowed to Odin to wash out the 
memory of his death in English blood, and Guthrum 
now determined to take advantage of the midwinter 
season for a sudden and victorious march upon his 
unsuspecting enemy. If he could seize Alfred in his 
palace, the war might be brought to an end, and Eng¬ 
land won, at a single blow. 

If we can take ourselves back in fancy to New- 
Year’s day of 878, and to an open plain in the vicin¬ 
ity of Gloucester, we shall see there the planted 
standard of Guthrum floating in the wind, while from 
every side armed horsemen are riding into the sur¬ 
rounding space. They know not why they come. A 
hasty summons has been sent them to meet their 
chieftain here on this day, armed and mounted, and, 
loyal to their leader, and ever ready for war, they 
ride hastily in, until the Danish champion finds him¬ 
self surrounded by a strong force of hardy warriors, 
eager to learn the cause of this midwinter summons. 

“ It is war,” said Guthrum to his chiefs. “ I have 
sworn to have England, and England shall be mine. 
The Saxons are scattered and at rest, not dreaming 
of battle and blood. Now is our time. A hard and 
sudden blow will end the war, and the fair isle of 
England will be the Raven’s spoil.” 


KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 


33 


We may still hear in fancy the wild shouts of 
approval with which this stirring declaration was 
heard. Visions of slaughter, plunder, and rich do¬ 
mains filled the souls of chiefs and men alike, and 
their eagerness to take to the field was such that 
they could barely wait to hear their leader’s plans. 

“ Alfred, the Saxon king, must be ours,” said Guth- 
rum. “ He is the one man I dread in all the Saxon 
hosts. They have many hands, but only one head. 
Let us seize the head, and the hands are useless. 
Alfred is at Chippenham. Thither let us ride at 
speed.” 

Their bands were mustered, their arms examined, 
and food for the expedition prepared, and then to 
horse and away! Headlong over the narrow and 
forest-bordered roads of that day rode the host of 
Hanes, in triumphant expectation of victory and 
spoil. 

In his study sat Alfred, on the night of January 
6, poring over an illuminated page; or mayhap he 
was deep in learned consultation with some monkish 
scholar, mayhap presiding at a feast of his thanes: 
we may fancy what we will, for history or legend 
fails to tell us how he was engaged on that critical 
evening of his life. 

But we may imagine a wide-eyed Saxon sentinel, 
scared and hasty, breaking upon the monarch’s 
leisure with the wild alarm-cry,— 

11 Up and away,my king! The Hanes are coming! 
hosts of them, armed and horsed! Up and away!” 

Hardly had he spoken before the hoof-beats of 
the advancing foe were heard. On they came, ex- 

II .—6 


34 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


tending their lines as they rode at headlong speed, 
hoping to surround the villa and seize the king be¬ 
fore the alarm could be given. 

They were too late. Alfred was quick to hear, to 
heed, and to act. Forest bordered the villa; into 
the forest he dashed, his followers following in tu¬ 
multuous haste. The Danes made what haste the 
obstructions in their way permitted. In a few min¬ 
utes they had swept round the villa, with ringing 
shouts of triumph. In a few minutes more they 
were treading its deserted halls, Guthrum at their 
head, furious to find that his hoped-for prey had 
vanished and left him but the empty shell of his 
late home. 

“After him!” cried the furious Dane. “He can¬ 
not be far. This place is full of signs of life. He 
has fled into the forest. After him! A king’s prize 
for the man who seizes him.” 

In vain their search, the flying king knew his own 
woods too well to be overtaken by the Danes. Yet 
their far cries filled his ears, and roused him to 
thoughts of desperate resistance. He looked around 
on his handful of valiant followers. 

“ Let us face them !” he cried, in hot anger. “ We 
are few, hut we fight for our homes. Let us meet 
these haying hounds!” 

“ Ho, no,” answered the wisest of his thanes. “ It 
would be worse than ra3h, it would be madness. 
They are twenty—a hundred, mayhap—to our one. 
Let us fly now, that we may fight hereafter. All is 
not lost while our king is free, and we to aid him.” 

Alfred was quick to see the wisdom of this advice. 


KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 


35 


lie must bide his time. To strike now might be to 
lose all. To wait might be to gain all. He turned 
with a meaning look to his faithful thanes. 

“ In sooth, you speak well,” he said. “ The wisdom 
of the fox is now better than the courage of the 
lion. We must part here. The land for the time is 
the Hanes’. We cannot hinder them. They will 
search homestead and woodland for me. Before a 
fortnight’s end they will have swarmed over all 
Wessex, and Guthrum will be lord of the land. I 
admire that man; he is more than a barbarian, he 
knows the art of war. He shall learn yet that 
Alfred is his match. We must part.” 

“ Part ?” said the thanes, looking at him in doubt. 
“ Wherefore ?” 

“ I must seek safety alone and in disguise. There 
are not enough of you to help me; there are enough 
to betray me to suspicion. Go your ways, good 
friends. Save yourselves. We will meet again be¬ 
fore many weeks to strike a blow for our country. 
But the time is not yet.” 

History speaks not from the depths of that wood¬ 
land whither Alfred had fled with his thanes. We 
cannot say if just these words were spoken, but such 
was the purport of their discourse. They separated, 
the thanes and their followers to seek their homes; 
Alfred, disguised as a peasant, to thread field and 
forest on foot towards a place of retreat which he 
had fixed upon in his mind. Hot even to the faith- 
fullest of his thanes did he tell the secret of his 
abode. For the present it must be known to none 
hut himself. 


36 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Meanwhile, the cavalry of Guthrum were raiding 
the country far and wide. Alfred had escaped, but 
England lay helpless in their grasp. Mews travelled 
slowly in those days. Everywhere the Saxons first 
learned of the war by hearing the battle-cry of the 
Danes. The land was overrun. England seemed 
lost. Its only hope of safety lay in a man who 
would not acknowledge defeat, a monarch who could 
bide his time. 

The lonely journey of the king led him to the 
centre of Somersetshire. Here, at the confluence 
of the Tone and the Parret, was a small island, 
afterwards known as Ethelingay, or Prince’s Island. 
Around it spread a wide morass, little likely to be 
crossed by his pursuers. Here, still disguised, the 
fugitive king sought a refuge from his foes. 

For several months Alfred remained in this re* 
treat, his place of refuge during part of the time 
being in the hut of a swineherd; and thereupon 
hangs a tale. Whether or not the worthy herdsman 
knew his king, certainly the weighty secret was not 
known to his wife. One day, while Alfred sat by 
the fire, his hands busy with his bow and arrows, 
his head mayhap busy with plans against the Danes, 
the good woman of the house was engaged in baking 
cakes on the hearth. 

Having to leave the hut for a few minutes, she 
turned to her guest, and curtly bade him watch the 
cakes, to see that they did not get overdone. 

“ Trust me for that,” he said. 

She left the room. The cakes smoked on the 
hearth, yet he saw them not. The goodwife re- 


KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 37 

turned in a brief space, to find her guest buried in 
a deep study, and her cakes burned to a cinder. 

“ What!” she cried, with an outburst of termagant 
spleen, “ I warrant you will be ready enough to eat 
them by-and-by, you idle dog! and yet you cannot 
watch them burning under your very eyes.” 

What the king said in reply the tradition which has 
preserved this pleasant tale fails to relate. Doubtless 
it needed some of the swineherd’s eloquence to induce 
his irate wife to bake a fresh supply for their careless 
guest. 

It had been Guthrum’s main purpose, as we may 
be assured, in his rapid ride to Chippenham, to seize 
the king. In this he had failed ; but the remainder 
of his project went successfully forward. Through 
Dorset, Berkshire, Wilts, and Hampshire rode his 
men, forcing the people everywhere to submit. The 
country was thinly settled, none knew the fate of 
the king, resistance would have been destruction; 
they bent before the storm, hoping by yielding to 
save their lives and some portion of their property 
from the barbarian foe. Those near the coast crossed 
with their families and movable effects to Gaul. 
Elsewhere submission was general, except in Somer¬ 
setshire, where alone a body of faithful warriors, 
lurking in the woods, kept in arms against the in¬ 
vaders. 

Alfred’s secret could not yet be safely revealed. 
Guthrum had not given over his search for him. 
Yet some of the more trusty of his subjects were 
told where he might be found, and a small band joined 
him in his morass-guarded isle. Gradually the news 

4 


38 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


spread, and others sought the isle of Ethelingay, 
until a well-armed and sturdy band of followers 
surrounded the royal fugitive. This party must be 
fed. The island yielded little subsistence. The king 
was obliged to make foraging raids from his hiding- 
place. Now and then he met and defeated straggling 
parties of Danes, taking from them their spoils. At 
other times, when hard need pressed, he was forced 
to forage on his own subjects. 

Day by day the news went wider through Saxon 
homes, and more warriors sought their king. As the 
strength of his band increased, Alfred made more 
frequent and successful forays. The Danes began 
to find that resistance was not at an end. By Easter 
the king felt strong enough to take a more decided 
action. He had a wooden bridge thrown from the 
island to the shore, to facilitate the movements of 
his followers, while at its entrance was built a fort, 
to protect the island party against a Danish incursion. 

Such was the state of Alfred’s fortunes and of 
England’s hopes in the spring of 878. Three months 
before, all southern England, with the exception of 
Gloucester and its surrounding lands, had been his. 
Now his kingdom was a small island in the heart of 
a morass, his subjects a lurking band of faithful 
warriors, his subsistence what could be wrested from 
the strong hands of the foe. 

While matters went thus in Somerset, a storm of 
war gathered in Wales. Another of Ragnar’s sons, 
Ubbo by name, had landed on the Welsh coast, and, 
carrying everything before him, was marching inland 
to join his victorious brother. 


KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 39 

He was too strong for the Saxons of that quarter 
to make head against him in the open field. Odun, 
the valiant ealderman who led them, fled, with his 
thanes and their followers, to the castle of Kwineth, 
a stronghold defended ouly by a loose wall of stones, 
in the Saxon fashion. But the fortress occupied the 
summit of a lofty rock, and bade defiance to assault. 
Ubbo saw this. He saw, also, that water must be 
wanting on that steep rock. He pitched his tents 
at its foot, and waited till thirst should compel a 
surrender of the garrison. 

He was to find that it is not always wise to cut 
off the supplies of a beleaguered foe. Despair aids 
courage. A day came in the seige in which Odun, 
grown desperate, left his defences before dawn, glided 
silently down the hill with his men, and fell so im¬ 
petuously upon the Danish host that the chief and 
twelve hundred of his followers were slain, and the 
rest driven in panic to their ships. The camp, rich 
with the spoil of Wales, fell into the victors’ hands, 
while their trophies included the great Raven stand¬ 
ard of the Danes, said to have been woven in one 
noontide by Ragnar’s three daughters. This was a 
loss that presaged defeat to the Danes, for they were 
superstitious concerning this standard. If the raven 
appeared to flap its wings when going into battle, 
victory seemed to them assured. If it hung motion¬ 
less, defeat was feared. Its loss must have been 
deemed fatal. 

Tidings of this Saxon victory flew as if upon 
wings throughout England, and everywhere infused 
new spirit into the hearts of the people, new hope 


40 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


of recovering their country from the invading foe. 
To Alfred the news brought a heart-tide of joy. 
The time for action was at hand. Recruits came to 
him daily; fresh life was in his people ; trusty mes¬ 
sengers from Ethelingay sought the thanes through¬ 
out the land, and bade them, with their followers, to 
join the king at Egbert, on the eastern border of 
Selwood forest, in the seventh week after Easter. 

Guthrum, meanwhile, was not idle. The frequent 
raids in mid-Somersetshire had taught him where 
his royal enemy might be found. Action, immediate 
and decisive, was necessary, or Alfred would be again 
in the field with a Saxon army, and the fruits of the 
successful midwinter raid be lost. Messengers were 
sent in haste to call in the scattered Danish bands, 
and a fortified camp was formed in a strong place 
in the vicinity of Ethelingay, whence a concerted 
movement might be made upon the lurking foe. 

The time fixed for the gathering of the Saxon host 
was at hand. It was of high importance that the num¬ 
bers and disposition of the Danes should be learned. 
The king, if we may trust tradition, now undertook 
an adventure that has ever since been classed among 
the choicest treasures of romance. The duty de¬ 
manded was too important to trust to any doubtful 
hands. Alfred determined himself to venture within 
the camp of the Danes, observe how they were forti¬ 
fied and how arranged, and use this vital information 
when the time for battle came. 

The enterprise was less desperate than might 
seem. Alfred’s form and face were little known to 
his enemies. He was a skilful harper. The glee- 


KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 


41 


man in those days was a privileged person, allied to 
no party, free to wander where he would, and to 
twang his harp-strings in any camp. He might look 
for welcome from friend and foe. 

Dressed in Danish garb, and bearing the minstrel’s 
harp, the daring king boldly sought and entered the 
camp of the invaders, his coming greeted with joy by 
the Danish warriors, who loved martial music as they 
loved war. 

Songs of Danish prowess fell from the disguised 
minstrel’s lips, to the delight of his audience. In the 
end Guthrum and his chiefs heard report of the 
coming of this skilled glee-man, and ordered that he 
should be brought to the great tent, where they sat 
carousing, in hopeful anticipation of coming victory. 

Alfred, nothing loath, sought Guthrum’s tent, 
where, with stirring songs of the old heroes of their 
land, he flattered the ears of the chiefs, who ap¬ 
plauded him to the echo, and at times broke into wdld 
refrains to his warlike odes. All that passed we can¬ 
not say. The story is told by tradition only, and 
tradition is not to be trusted for details. Doubtless, 
when the royal spy slipped from the camp of his 
foes he bore with him an accurate mind-picture of 
the numbers, the discipline, and the arrangement of 
the Danish force, which would be of the highest 
value in the coming fray. 

Meanwhile, the Saxon hosts were gathering. When 
the day fixed by the king arrived they were there : 
men from Hampshire, Wiltshire, Devonshire, and 
Somerset; men in smaller numbers from other coun¬ 
ties j all glad to learn that England was on its feet 

4* 


42 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


again, all filled with joy to see their king in the field. 
Their shouts filled the leafy alleys of the forest, they 
hailed the king as the land’s avenger, every heart 
beat high with assurance of victory. Before night 
of the day of meeting the woodland camp was over¬ 
crowded with armed men, and at dawn of the next 
day Alfred led them to a place named Icglea, where, 
on the forest’s edge, a broad plain spread with a mo¬ 
rass on its front. All day long volunteers came to 
the camp ; by night Alfred had an army in open 
field, in place of the guerilla band with which, two 
days before, he had lurked in the green aisles of Sel- 
wood forest, like a Robin Hood of an earlier day, 
making the verdant depths of the greenwood dales 
his home. 

At dawn of the next day the king marshalled his 
men in battle array, and occupied the summit of 
Ethandune, a lofty eminence in the vicinity of his 
camp. The Hanes, fiery with barbaric valor, boldly 
advanced, and the two armies met in fierce atfray, 
shouting their war-cries, discharging arrows and 
hurling javelins, and rushing like wolves of war to 
the closer and more deadly hand-to-hand combat of 
sword and axe, of the shock of the contending forces, 
the hopes and fears of victory and defeat, the deeds 
of desperate valor, the mighty achievements of noted 
chiefs, on that hard-fought field no Homer has sung, 
and they must remain untold. All we know is that 
the Hanes fought with desperate valor, the English 
with a courage inspired by revenge, fear of slavery, 
thirst for liberty, and the undaunted resolution of men 
whose every blow was struck for home and fireside. 


KING ALFRED AND THE DANES. 


43 


In the end patriotism prevailed over the baser 
instinct of piracy; the Danes were defeated, and 
driven in tumultuous hosts to their intrenched camp, 
falling in multitudes as they fled, for the incensed 
English laid aside all thought of mercy in the hot 
fury of pursuit. 

Only when within the shelter of his works was 
Guthrum able to make head against his victorious 
foe. The camp seemed too strong to be taken by 
assault, nor did Alfred care to immolate his men 
while a safer and surer expedient remained. He had 
made himself fully familiar with its formation, knew 
well its weak and strong points and its sparseness of 
supplies, and without loss of time spread his forces 
round it, besieging it so closely that not a Dane could 
escape. For fourteen days the siege went on, Al¬ 
fred’s army, no doubt, daily increasing, that of his 
foe wasting away before the ceaseless flight of arrows 
and javelins. 

Guthrum was in despair. Famine threatened him. 
Escape was impossible. Hardly a bird could have 
fled unseen through the English lines. At the end 
of the fortnight he yielded, and asked for terms of 
surrender. The war was at an end. England was 
saved. 

In his moment of victory Alfred proved generous. 
He gave the Danes an abiding-place upon English 
soil, on condition that they should dwell there as his 
vassals. To this they were to bind themselves by 
oath and the giving of hostages. Another condition 
was that Guthrum and his leading chiefs should give 
up their pagan faith and embrace Christianity. 


44 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


To these terms the Danish leader acceded. A few 
weeks after the fight Aubre, near Athelney, was the 
scene of the baptizal of Guthrum and thirty of his 
chiefs. His heathen title had added to it the Saxon 
name of Athelstan, Alfred standing sponsor to the 
new convert to the Christian faith. Eight days 
afterwards Guthrum laid off the white robe and chrys- 
mal fillet of his new faith, and in twelve days bade 
adieu to his victorious foe, now, to all seeming, his 
dearest friend. What sum of Christian faith the 
baptized heathen took with him to the new lands 
assigned him it would be rash to say. 

The treaty of Wedmore freed southern England 
from the Danes. The shores of Wessex were teased 
now and then by after-descents, but these incursions 
were swept away like those of stinging hornets. In 
894 a fleet of three hundred ships invaded the realm, 
but they met a crushing defeat. The king was given 
some leisure to pursue those studies to which his 
mind so strongly inclined, and to carry forward 
measures for the education of his people by the es¬ 
tablishment of schools which, like those of Charle¬ 
magne in France, vanished before he was fairly in 
the grave. This noble knight died in 901, nearly 
a thousand years ago, after having proved himself 
one of the ablest warriors and most advanced minds 
that ever occupied the English throne. 


THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 


We have two pictures to draw, preliminary scenes 
to the fatal battle of Hastings Hill. The first belongs 
to the morning of September 25, 1066. At Stamford 
Bridge, on the Derwent Biver, lay encamped a stal¬ 
wart host, that of Harold Hardrada, king of Norway. 
With him was Tostig, rebel brother of King Harold 
of England, who had brought this army of strangers 
into the land. On the river near by lay their ships. 

Here Harold found them, a formidable force, drawn 
up in a circle, the line marked out by shining spears. 
The English king had marched hither in all haste 
from the coast, where he had been awaiting the 
coming of William of Normandy. Tostig, the rebel 
son of Godwin, had brought ruin upon the land. 

Before the battle commenced, twenty horsemen 
rode out from Harold’s vanguard and moved towards 
the foe. Harold, the king, rode at their head. As 
they drew near they saw a leader of the opposing 
host, clad in a blue mantle and wearing a shining 
helmet, fall to the earth through the stumbling of 
his horse. 

“ Who is the man that fell ?” asked Harold. 

“ The king of Norway,” answered one of his 
companions. 


45 


46 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


(m He is a tall and stately warrior,” answered Har¬ 
old, “ but bis end is near.” 

Then, under command of the king, one of bis 
noble followers rode up to the opposing line and 
called out,— 

“ Is Tostig, the son of Godwin, here ?” 

“ It would be wrong to say be is not,” answered 
the rebel Englishman, stepping into view. 

The herald then begged him to make peace with 
his brother, saying that it was dreadful that two 
men, sons of the same mother, should be in arms 
against each other. 

“ What will Harold give me if I make peace with 
him ?” asked Tostig. 

“ He will give you a brother’s love and make you 
earl of Northumberland.” 

“ And what will he give to my friend, the king of 
Norway ?” 

“ Seven feet of earth for a grave,” was the grim 
answer of the envoy; “ or, as he seems a very tall 
man, perhaps a foot or two more.” 

“ Hide back, then,” said Tostig, “ and bid Harold 
make ready for battle. Whatever happens, it shall 
never be said of Tostig that he basely gave up the 
friend who had helped him in time of need.” 

The fight began,—and quickly ended. Hardrada 
fought like a giant, but an arrow in his throat brought 
him dead to the ground. Tostig fell also, and many 
other chiefs. The Northmen, disheartened, yielded. 
Harold gave them easy terms, bidding them take 
their ships and sail again to the land whence they 
had come. 


THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 


47 


This warlike picture on the land may be matched 
by one upon the sea. Over the waves of the English 
Channel moved a single ship, such a one as has rarely 
been seen upon those waters. Its sails were of dif¬ 
ferent bright colors; the vanes at the mast-heads 
were gilded; the three lions of Normandy were 
painted hero and there; the figure-head was a child 
with a bent bow, its arrow pointed towards the land 
of England. At the mainmast-head floated a conse¬ 
crated banner, which had been sent from Eome. 

It was the ship of William of Normandy, alone 
upon the waves. Three thousand vessels in all had 
left with it the shores of France, six or seven hundred 
of them large in size. Now, day was breaking, and 
the king’s ship was alone. The others had vanished 
in the night. 

William ordered a sailor to the mast-head to report 
on what he could see. 

“ I see nothing but the water and the sky,” came 
the lookout’s cry from above. 

“We have outsailed them; we must lay to,” said 
the duke. 

Breakfast was served, with warm spiced wine, to 
keep the crew in good heart. After it was over the 
sailor was again sent aloft. 

“ I can see four ships, low down in the offing,” ho 
proclaimed. 

A third time he was sent to the mast-head. His 
voice now came to those on deck filled with merry 
cheer. 

“ Now I see a forest of masts and sails,” he cried. 

Within a few hours afterwards the Normans were 


48 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


landing in Pevensey Bay, on the Sussex coast, 
Harold had been drawn off the invasion m the 
north, and the new invaders were free to land. 
Duke William was among the first. As he set foot 
on shore he stumbled and fell. The hearts of his 
knights fell with him, for they deemed this an un¬ 
lucky sign. But William had that ready wit which 
turns ill into good fortune. Grasping two handfuls 
of the soil, he hastily rose, saying, cheerily, “ Thus 
do I seize upon the land of England.” 

Meanwhile, Harold was feasting, after his victory, 
at York. As he sat there with his captains, a stir 
was heard at the doors, and in rushed a messenger, 
booted and spurred, and covered with dust from 
riding fast and far. 

“ The Normans have come!” was his cry. “ They 
have landed at Pevensey Bay. They are out already, 
harrying the land. Smoke and fire are the beacons 
of their march.” 

That feast came to a sudden end. Soon Harold 
and his men were in full march for London. Hero 
recruits were gathered in all haste. Within a week 
the English king was marching towams wnm-e the 
Normans lay encamped. He was counselled to 
remain and gather more men, leaving some one else 
to lead his army. 

“Not so,” he replied; “an English king must 
never turn his back to the enemy.” 

We have now a third picture to draw, and a great 
one,—that of the mighty and momentous conflict 
which ended in the death of the last of the Saxon 
kings, and the Norman conquest of England. 


THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 


49 


The force of William greatly outnumbered that of 
Harold. It comprised about sixty thousand men, 
while Harold had but twenty or thirty thousand. 
And the Normans were more powerfully armed, the 
English having few archers, while many of them 
were hasty recruits who bore only pitchforks and 
other tools of their daily toil. The English king, 
therefore, did not dare to meet the heavily-armed 
and mail-clad Normans in the open field. Wisely he 
led his men to the hill of Senlac, near Hastings, a 
spot now occupied by the small town of Battle, so 
named in memory of the great fight. Here he built 
intrenchments of earth, stones, and tree-trunks, be¬ 
hind which he waited the Norman assault. Marshy 
ground covered the English right. In front, at the 
most exposed position, stood the “huscarls,” or body¬ 
guard, of Harold, men clad in mail and armed with 
great battle-axes, their habit being to interlock their 
shields like a wall. In their midst stood the standard 
of Harold,—with the figure of a warrior worked in 
gold and gems,—and beside it the Golden Dragon of 
Wessex, a banner of ancient fame. Back of them 
were crowded the half-armed rustics who made up 
the remainder of the army. 

Duke William had sought, by ravaging the land, 
to bring Harold to an engagement. He had until 
now subsisted by plunder. He was now obliged to 
concentrate his forces. A concentrated army cannot 
feed by pillage. There was but one thing for the 
Norman leader to do. He must attack the foe in 
his strong position, with victory or ruin as his only 
alternatives, 
ii.—c d 


5 


50 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


The night before the battle was differently passed 
by the two armies. The Normans spent the hours 
in prayer and confession to their priests. Bishop 
Odo celebrated mass on the field as day dawned, his 
white episcopal vestment covering a coat of mail, 
while war-horse and battle-axe awaited him when 
the benediction should be spoken. The English, on 
their side, sat round their watch-fires, drinking great 
horns of ale, and singing warlike lays, as their custom 
for centuries had been. In which camp was the 
most real piety none less than a saint could have 
told. 

Day had not dawned on that memorable 14th of 
October, of the year 1066, when both sides were in 
arms and busily preparing for battle. William and 
Harold alike harangued their men and bade them do 
their utmost for victory. Buin awaited the one side, 
slavery the other, if defeat fell upon their banners. 

William rode a fine Spanish horse, which a Nor¬ 
man had brought from Galicia, whither he had gone 
on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Iago. The con¬ 
secrated standard was borne by his side by one Ton- 
stain, “ the White,” two barons having declined the 
dangerous honor. Behind him rode the pride of the 
Norman nobility. 

On the hill-side before them stood Harold and his 
stout body-guard, trenches and earthworks in their 
front, their shields locked into a wall of iron. In 
the first line stood the men of Kent, this being their 
ancient privilege. Behind them were ranged the 
burgesses of London, the royal standard in their 
midst. Beside the standard stood Harold himself. 


THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 


51 


his brothers Gurth and Leofwin by his side, and 
around them a group of England’s noblest thanes 
and warriors. 

On came the Norman column. Steadily awaited 
them the English phalanx. “ Dieu aide!” or “ God 
is our help !” shouted the assailing knights. “ Christ’s 
rood! the holy rood!” roared back the English war¬ 
riors. Nearer they came, till they looked in each 
other’s eyes, and the battle was ready to begin. 

And now, from the van of the Norman host, rode 
a man of renown, the minstrel Taillefer. A gigantic 
man he was, singer, juggler, and champion combined. 
As he rode fearlessly forward he chanted in a loud 
voice the ancient “ Song of Boland,” flinging his 
sword in the air with one hand as he sang, and catch¬ 
ing it as it fell with the other. As he sang, the Nor¬ 
mans took up the refrain of his song, or shouted 
their battle cry of “ Dieu aide.” 

Onward he rode, thrusting his blade through the 
body of the first Englishman he met. The second 
he encountered was flung wounded to the ground. 
With the third the “Song of Boland” ended; the 
giant minstrel was hurled from his horse pierced with 
a mortal wound. He had sung his last song. He 
crossed himself and was at rest. 

On came the Normans, the band of knights led 
by William assailing Harold’s centre, the mercenary 
host of French and Bretons attacking his flanks. 
The Norman foot led the van, seeking to force a 
passage across the English stockade. “ Out, out!” 
fiercely shouted the men of Kent, as they plied axe 
and javelin with busy hands. The footmen were 


52 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


driven back. The Norman horse in turn were re¬ 
pulsed. Again and again the duke rallied and led 
his knights to the fatal stockade; again and again 
he and his men were driven back. The blood of the 
Norseman in his veins burned with all the old Yiking 
battle-thirst. The headlong valor which he had 
often shown on Norman plains now impelled him re¬ 
lentlessly forward. Yet his coolness and readiness 
never forsook him. The course of the battle ever 
lay before his eyes, its reins in his grasp. At one 
time during the combat the choicest of the Norman 
cavalry were driven upon a deep trench which the 
English had dug and artfully concealed. In they 
went in numbers, men and horses falling and per¬ 
ishing. Disaster threatened Duke William’s army. 
The Bretons, checked by the marshes on the right, 
broke in disorder. Panic threatened to spread 
through the whole array, and a wild cry arose that 
the duke was slain. Men in numbers turned their 
backs upon the foe ; a headlong flight was begun. 

At this almost fatal moment Duke William’s power 
as a leader revealed itself. His horse had been 
killed, but no harm had come to him. Springing to 
the back of a fresh steed, he spurred before the 
fugitives, bade them halt, threatened them, struck 
them with his spear. When the cry was repeated 
that the duke was dead, he tore off his helmet and 
showed his face to the flying host. “ Here I am!” 
he cried, in a stentorian voice. “ Look at me I I live, 
and by God’s help will conquer yet!” 

Their leader’s voice gave new courage to the Nor¬ 
man host; the flight ceased; they rallied, and, fob 


THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 


53 


lowing the headlong charge of the duke, attacked 
the English with renewed fierceness and vigor. Wil¬ 
liam fought like an aroused lion. Horse after horse 
was killed under him, but he still appeared at the 
head of his men, shouting his terrible war-cry, 
striking down a foeman with every swing of his 
mighty iron club 

He broke through the stockade; he spurred fu¬ 
riously on those who guarded the king’s standard; 
down went Gyrth, the king’s brother, before a blow 
of that terrible mace; down went Leofwin, a second 
brother of the king; William’s horse fell dead under 
him, a rider refused to lend him his horse, but a blow 
from that strong mailed hand emptied the saddle, 
and William was again horsed and using his mighty 
weapon with deadly effect. 

Yet despite all his efforts the English line of do* 
fence remained unbroken. That linked wall of 
shields stood intact. From behind it the terrible 
battle-axes of Harold’s men swung like flails, making 
crimson gaps in the crowded ranks before them. 
Hours had passed in this conflict. It began with 
day-dawn ; the day was waning, yet still the English 
held their own; the fate of England hung in the 
scale; it began to look as if Harold would win. 

But Duke William was a man of resources. That 
wall of shields must be rent asunder, or the battle 
was lost. If it could not be broken by assault, it 
might by retreat. He bade the men around him to 
feign a disorderly flight. The trick succeeded; many 
of the English leaped the stockade and pursued their 
flying foes. The crafty duke waited until the eager 

5 * 


54 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


pursuers were scattered confusedly down the hill. 
Then, heading a body of horse which he had kept 
in reserve, he rushed upon the disordered mass, cut¬ 
ting them down in multitudes, strewing the hill-side 
with English slain. 

Through the abandoned works the duke led his 
knights, and gained the central plateau. On the 
flanks the French and Bretons poured over the stock¬ 
ade and drove back its poorly-armed defenders. It 
was mid-afternoon, and the field already seemed 
won. Yet when the sunset hour came on that red 
October day the battle still raged. Harold had lost 
his works of defence, yet his huscarls stood stub¬ 
bornly around him, and with unyielding obstinacy 
fought for their standard and their king. The spot 
on which they made their last fight was that marked 
afterwards by the high altar of Battle Abbey. 

The sun was sinking. The battle was not yet de¬ 
cided. For nine hours it had raged. Dead bodies 
by thousands clogged the field. The living fought 
from a platform of the dead. At length, as the sun 
was nearing the horizon, Duke William brought up 
his archers and bade them pour their arrows upon 
the dense masses crowded around the standard of 
the English king. He ordered them to shoot into 
the air, that the descending shafts might fall upon 
the faces of the foe. 

Yictory followed the flight of those plumed shafts. 
As the sun went down one of them pierced Harold’s 
right eye. When they saw him fall the Normans 
rushed like a torrent forward, and a desperate con¬ 
flict ensued over the fallen king. The Saxon stand- 


THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND. 55 

arri still waved over the serried English ranks. 
Robert Fitz Ernest, a Norman knight, fought his 
way to the staff. His outstretched hand had nearly 
grasped it when an English battle-axe laid him low. 
Twenty knights, grouped in mass, followed him 
through the English phalanx. Down they went 
till ten of them lay stretched in death. The other 
ten reached the spot, tore down the English flag, 
and in a few minutes more the consecrated banner 
of Normandy was flying in its stead. 

The conflict was at an end. As darkness came 
the surviving English fled into the woods in their 
rear. The Normans remained masters of the field. 
Harold, the king, was dead, and all his brothers had 
fallen ; Duke William was England’s lord. On the 
very spot where Harold had fallen the conqueror 
pitched his tent, and as darkness settled over van¬ 
quished England he “ sate down to eat and drink 
among the dead.” 

No braver fight had ever been made than that 
which Harold made for England. The loss of the 
Normans had been enormous. On the day after the 
battle the survivors of William’s army were drawn 
up in line, and the muster-roll called. To a fourth 
of the names no answer was returned. Among the 
dead were many of the noblest lords and bravest 
knights of Normandy. Yet there were hungry 
nobles enough left to absorb all the fairest domains 
of Saxon England, and they crowded eagerly around 
the duke, pressing on him their claims. A new roll 
was prepared, containing the names of the noblemen 
and gentlemen who had survived the bloody fight. 


56 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


This was afterwards deposited in Battle Abbey, 
which William had built upon the hill where Harold 
made his gallant stand. 

The body of the slain king was not easily to be 
found. Harold’s aged mother, who had lost three 
brave sons in the battle, offered Duke William its 
weight in gold for the body of the king. Two 
monks sought for it, but in vain. The Norman sol¬ 
diers had despoiled the dead, and the body of a king 
could not be told among that heap of naked corpses. 
In the end the monks sent for Editha, a beautiful 
maiden to whom Harold had been warmly attached, 
and bested her to search for her slain lover. 

OO 

Editha, the “ swan-necked,” as some chroniclers 
term her, groped, with eyes half-blinded with tears, 
through that heap of mutilated dead, her soul filled 
with horror, yet seeking on and on until at length 
her love-true eyes saw and knew the face of the 
king. Harold’s body was taken to Waltham Abbey, 
on the river Lea, a place he had loved when alive. 
Here he was interred, his tomb bearing the simple 
inscription, placed there by the monks of Waltham, 
11 Here lies the unfortunate Harold 1” 


HERE WARD THE WAKE. 


Through the mist of the far past of English his¬ 
tory there looms up before our vision a notable figure, 
that of Hereward the Wake, the “ last of the Saxons,” 
as he has been appropriately called, a hero of romance 
perhaps more than of history, but in some respects 
the noblest warrior who fought for Saxon England 
against the Normans. His story is a fabric in which 
threads of fact and fancy seem equally interwoven ; 
of much of his life, indeed, we are ignorant, and tra¬ 
dition has surrounded this part of his biography 
with tales of largely imaginary deeds; but he is a 
character of history as well as of folk lore, and his 
true story is full of the richest elements of romance. 
It is this noteworthy hero of old England with whom 
we have now to deal. 

No one can be sure where Hereward was born, 
though most probably the county of Lincolnshire 
may claim the honor. We are told that he was heir 
to the lordship of Bourne, in that county. Tradition 
—for we have not yet reached the borders of fact— 
says that he was a wild and unruly youth, disre¬ 
spectful to the clergy, disobedient to his parents, 
and so generally unmanageable that in the end his 
father banished him from his home,—if it were not 

57 


68 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


the clergy or the king that had to do with his ban¬ 
ishment. 

Little was the truculent lad troubled by this. He 
had in him the spirit of a wanderer and outlaw, but 
was one fitted to make his mark wherever his feet 
should fall. In Scotland, while still a boy, he killed, 
single-handed, a great bear,—a feat highly consid¬ 
ered in those days when all battles with man and 
beast were hand to hand. Next we hear of him 
in Cornwall, one of whose race of giants Hereward 
found reserved for his prowess. This was a fellow 
of mighty limb and boastful tongue, vast in strength 
and terrible in war, as his own tale ran. Hereward 
fought him, and the giant ceased to boast. Corn¬ 
wall had a giant the less. Next he sought Ireland, 
and did yeoman service in the wars of that unquiet 
island. Taking ship thence, he made his way to 
Flanders, where legend credits him with wonderful 
deeds. Battle and bread were the nutriment of his 
existence, the one as necessary to him as the other, 
and a journey of a few hundreds of miles, with the 
hope of a hard fight at the end, was to him but a 
holiday. 

Such is the Hereward to whom tradition introduces 
us, an idol of popular song and story, and doubtless 
a warrior of unwonted courage and skill, agile and 
strong, ready for every toil and danger, and so keenly 
alert and watchful that men called him the Wake. 
This vigorous and valiant man was born to be the hero 
and champion of the English, in their final struggle 
for freedom against their Norman foes. 

A new passion entered Ilereward’s soul in Flanders, 


TIEREWARD THE WAKE. 


59 


that of love. He met and wooed there a fair lady, Tor- 
frida by name, who became his wife. A faithful 
helpmeet she proved, his good comrade in his wan¬ 
derings, his wise counsellor in warfare, and ever 
a softening influence in the fierce warrior’s life. 
Hitherto the sword had been his mistress, his temper 
the turbulent and hasty one of the dweller in camp. 
Henceforth he owed a divided allegiance to love and 
the sword, and grew softer in mood, gentler and 
more merciful in disposition, as life went on. 

To this wandering Englishman beyond the seas 
came tidings of sad disasters in his native land. 
Harold and his army had been overthrown at Hast¬ 
ings, and Norman William was on the throne ; Nor¬ 
man earls had everywhere seized on English manors; 
Norman churls, ennobled on the field of battle., were 
robbing and enslaving the old owners of the land. 
The English had risen in the north, and William had 
harried whole counties, leaving a desert where he 
had found a fertile and flourishing land. The suffer¬ 
ings of the English at home touched the heart of 
this genuine Englishman abroad. Here ward the 
Wake gathered a band of stout warriors, took ship, 
and set sail for his native land. 

And now, to a large extent, we leave the realm of 
legend, and enter the domain of fact. Hereward 
henceforth is a historical character, but a history 
his with shreds of romance still clinging to its skirts. 
First of all, story credits him with descending on his 
ancestral hall of Bourne, then in the possession of 
Normans, his father driven from his domain, and 
now in his grave. Hereward dealt with the Nor- 


60 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


mans as Ulysses had done with the suitors, and when 
the hall was his there were few of them left to tell 
the tale. Thence, not caring to be cooped up by the 
enemy within stone walls, he marched merrily away, 
and sought a safer refuge elsewhere. 

This descent upon Bourne we should like to accept 
as fact. It has in it the elements of righteous retri¬ 
bution. But we must admit that it is one of the 
shreds of romance of which we have spoken, one 
of those interesting stories which men believe to bo 
true because they would like them to be true,—pos¬ 
sibly with a solid foundation, certainly with much 
embellishment. 

Where we first surely find Hereward is in the 
heart of the fen country of eastern England. Here, 
at Ely in Cambridgeshire, a band of Englishmen 
had formed what they called a “ Camp of Befuge,” 
whence they issued at intervals in excursions against 
the Bormans. England had no safer haven of re¬ 
treat for her patriot sons. Ely was practically an 
island, being surrounded by watery marshes on all 
sides. Lurking behind the reeds and rushes of these 
fens, and hidden by their misty exhalations, that 
faithful band had long defied its foes. 

Hither came Hereward with his warlike followers, 
and quickly found himself at the head of the bar. d 
of patriot refugees. History was repeating itself. 
Centuries before King Alfred had sought just such 
a shelter against the Hanes, and had troubled his 
enemies as Hereward now began to trouble his. 

The exiles of the Camp of Befuge found new 
blood in their organization when Hereward became 


HEREWARD THE WAKE. 


61 


their leader. Their feeble forays were quickly re¬ 
placed by bold and daring ones. Issuing like hornets 
from their nests, Hereward and his valiant followers 
sharply stung the Norman invaders, hesitating not 
to attack them wherever found, cutting off armed 
bands, wresting from them the spoil of which they 
had robbed the Saxons, and flying back to their reedy 
shelter before their foes could gather in force. 

Of the exploits of this band of active warriors 
but one is told in full, and that one is worth re¬ 
peating. The Abbey of Peterborough, not far re¬ 
moved from Ely, had submitted to Norman rule and 
gained a Norman abbot, Turold by name. This 
angered the English at Ely, and they made a descent 
upon the monkish settlement. No great harm was 
intended. Food and some minor spoil would have 
satisfied the raiders. But the frightened monks, 
instead of throwing themselves on the clemency 
of their fellow-countrymen, sent word in haste to 
Turold. This incensed the raiding band, composed 
in part of English, in part of Banes who had little 
regard for church privileges. Provoked to fury, 
they set fire to the monks’ house and the town, and 
only one house escaped the flames. Then they 
assailed the monastery, the monks flying for their 
lives. The whole band of outlaws burst like wolves 
into the minster, which they rapidly cleared of its 
treasures. Here some climbed to the great rood, 
and carried off its golden ornaments. There others 
made their way to the steeple, where had been 
hidden the gold and silver pastoral staff. Shrines, 
roods, books, vestments, money, treasures of all sorts 


62 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


vanished, and when Abbot Turold appeared with a 
party of armed Normans, he found but the bare 
walls of the church and the ashes of the town, with 
only a sick monk to represent the lately prosperous 
monastery. Whether or not Hereward took part in 
this affair, history does not say. 

King William had hitherto disregarded this patriot 
refuge, and the bold deeds of the valiant Hereward. 
All England besides had submitted to his authority, 
and he was too busy in the work of making a feudal 
kingdom of free England to trouble himself about 
one small centre of insurrection. But an event 
occurred that caused him to look upon Hereward 
with more hostile eyes. 

Among those who had early sworn fealty to him, 
after the defeat of Harold at Hastings, were Edwin 
and Morcar, the earls of Mercia and Northumber¬ 
land. They were confirmed in the possession of 
their estates and dignities, and remained faithful to 
William during the general insurrection of northern 
England. As time went on, however, their position 
became unbearable. The king failed to give them 
his confidence, the courtiers envied them their wealth 
and titles, and maligned them to the king. Their 
dignity of position was lost at the court; their safety 
even was endangered; they resolved, when too late, to 
emulate their braver countryman, and strike a blow 
for home and liberty. Edwin sought his domain in 
the north, bent on insurrection. Morcar made his 
way to the Isle of Ely, where he took service with 
his followers, and with other noble Englishmen, 
under the brave Hereward, glad to find one spot on 


HEREWARD THE WAKE. 


63 


which a man of true English blood could still set 
foot in freedom. 

His adhesion brought ruin instead of strength to 
Hereward. If William could afford to neglect a 
band of outlaws in the fens, he could not rest with 
these two great earls in aims against him. There 
were forces in the north to attend to Edwin; Morcar 
and Hereward must be looked after. 

Gathering an army, William marched to the fen 
country and prepared to attack the last of the Eng¬ 
lish in their almost inaccessible Camp of Befuge. He 
had already built himself a castle at Cambridge, and 
here he dwelt while directing his attack against the 
outlaws of the fens. 

The task before him was not a light one, in the 
face of an opponent so skilful and vigilant as Here¬ 
ward the Wake. The Normans of that region had 
found him so ubiquitous and so constantly victorious 
that they ascribed his success to enchantment; and 
even William, who was not free from the supersti¬ 
tions of his day, seemed to imagine that he had an 
enchanter for a foe. Enchanter or not, however, ho 
must be dealt with as a soldier, and there was but 
one way in which he could be reached. The heavily- 
armed Norman soldiers could not cross the marsh. 
From one side the Isle of Ely could be approached 
by vessels, but it was here so strongly defended that 
the king’s ships failed to make progress against 
Hereward’s works. Finding his attack by water a 
failure, William began the building of a causeway, 
two miles long, across the morasses from the dry 
land to the island. 


64 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


This was no trifling labor. There was a consider¬ 
able depth of mud and water to fill, and stones and 
trunks of trees were brought for the purpose from 
all the surrounding country, the trees being covered 
with hides as a protection against fire. The work 
did not proceed in peace. Hereward and his men 
contested its progress at every point, attacked the 
workmen with darts and arrows from the light boats 
in which they navigated the waters of the fens, and, 
despite the hides, succeeded in setting fire to the 
woodwork of the causeway. More than once it had 
to be rebuilt; more than once it broke down under 
the weight of the Norman knights and men-at-arms, 
who crowded upon it in their efforts to reach the 
island, and many of these eager warriors, weighed 
down by the burden of their armor, met a dismal 
death in the mud and water of the marshes. 

Hereward fought with his accustomed courage, 
warlike skill, and incessant vigilance, and gave King 
‘William no easy task, despite the strength of his 
army and the abundance of his resources. But such 
a contest, against so skilled an enemy as William the 
Conqueror, and with such disparity of numbers, 
could have but one termination. Hereward struck 
so valiant a last blow for England that he won the 
admiration of his great opponent; but William was 
not the man to rest content with aught short of 
victory, and every successful act of defence on the 
part of the English was met by a new movement of 
assault. Despite all Hereward’s efforts, the cause¬ 
way slowly but surely moved forward across the 
fens. 



ELY CATHEDRAL. 































































































































I1EREWARD THE WAKE. 


ba 

But Hereward’s chief danger lay behind rather 
than before; in the island rather than on the main¬ 
land. His accessions of nobles and commons had 
placed a strong body of men under his command, 
with whom he might have been able to meet Wil¬ 
liam’s approaches by ship and causeway, had not 
treason lain intrenched in the island itself. With 
war in his front and treachery in his rear the gallant 
Wake had a double danger to contend with. 

This brings us to a picturesque scene, deftly painted 
by the old chroniclers. Ely had its abbey, a counter¬ 
part of that of Peterborough. Thurston, the abbot, 
was English-born, as were the monks under his pas¬ 
toral charge ; and long the cowled inmates of the 
abbey and the armed patriots of the Camp of Kefuge 
dwelt in sweet accord. In the refectory of the abbey 
monks and warriors sat side by side at table, their 
converse at meals being doubtless divided between 
affairs spiritual and affairs temporal, while from walls 
and roof hung the arms of the warriors, harmoniously 
mingled with the emblems of the church. It was a 
picture of the marriage of church and state well 
worthy of reproduction on canvas. 

Yet King William knew how to deal with monks. 
He had had ample experience of their desire to lay 
up treasures upon earth. Lands belonging to the 
monastery lay beyond the fens, and on these the king 
laid the rough hand of royal right, as an earnest of 
what would happen when the monastery itself should 
fall into his hands. A flutter of terror shook the 
hearts of Abbot Thurston and his monkish family. 
To them it seemed that the skies were about to fall, 
ii .—e 6* 


66 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


and that they would be wise to stand from under. 
From that moment they became traitors in soul to 
the cause of Hereward, the danger to their precious 
possessions outweighing the peril of their country 

While the monks of Ely were revolving this threat 
of disaster in their souls, the tide of assault and de¬ 
fence rolled on. William’s causeway pushed its slow 
length forward through the fens. Hereward assailed 
it with fire and sword, and harried the king’s lands 
outside by sudden raids. It is said that, like King 
Alfred before him, he more than once visited the 
camp of the Normans in disguise, and spied out their 
ways and means of warfare. 

There is a story connected with this warlike enter¬ 
prise so significant of the times that it must be told. 
Whether or not William believed Hereward to be 
an enchanter, he took steps to defeat enchantment, 
if any existed. An old woman, who had the reputa¬ 
tion of being a sorceress, was brought to the royal 
camp, and her services engaged in the king’s cause. 
A wooden tower was built, and pushed along the 
causeway in front of the troops, the old woman 
within it actively dispensing her incantations and 
calling down the powers of witchcraft upon Here- 
ward’s head. Unfortunately for her, Hereward tried 
against her sorcery of the broomstick the enchant¬ 
ment of the brand, setting fire to the tower and 
burning it and the sorceress within it. We could 
scarcely go back to a later date than the eleventh 
century to find such an absurdity as this possible, 
but in those days of superstition even such a man as 
William the Conqueror was capable of it. 


HEREWARD THE WAKE. 


67 


How the contest would have ended had treason 
been absent it is not easy to say. As it was, the false 
hearts of Abbot Thurston and his monks brought 
the siege to a sudden and disastrous end. They 
showed the king a secret way of approach to the 
island, and William’s warriors took the camp of Here- 
ward by surprise. What followed scarcely needs the 
telling. A fierce and sharp struggle, men falling and 
dying in scores, William’s heavy-armed warriors 
pressing heavily upon the ranks of the more lightly 
clad Englishmen, and final defeat and surrender, com¬ 
plete the story of the assault upon Ely. 

William had won, but Hereward still defied him. 
Striking his last blow in defence, the gallant leader, 
with a small band of chosen followers, cut a lane of 
blood through the Norman ranks and made his way 
to a small fleet of ships which he had kept armed 
and guarded for such an emergency. Sail was set, 
and down the stream they sped to the open sea, still 
setting at defiance the power of Norman William. 

We have two further lines of story to follow, one 
of history, the other of romance; one that of the 
reward of the monks for their treachery, the other 
that of the later story of Hereward the Wake. Ab¬ 
bot Thurston hastened to make his submission to the 
king. He and his monkish companions sought the 
court, then at Warwick, and humbly begged the royal 
favor and protection. The story goes that William 
repaid their visit by a journey to Ely, where he en¬ 
tered the minster while the monks, all unconscious 
of the royal visit, were at their meal in the refectory. 
The king stood humbly at a distance from the shrine, 


68 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


as not worthy to approach it, but sent a mark of 
gold to he offered as his tribute upon the altar. 

Meanwhile, one Gilbert of Clare entered the refec¬ 
tory, and asked the feasting monks whether they 
could not dine at some other time, and if it were not 
wise to repress their hunger while King William was 
in the church. Like a flock of startled pigeons the 
monks rose, their appetites quite gone, and flocked 
tumultuously towards the church. They were too 
late. William was gone. But in his short visit he 
had left them a most unwelcome legacy by marking 
out the site of a castle within the precincts of the 
monastery, and giving orders for its immediate build¬ 
ing by forced labor. 

Abbot Thurston finally purchased peace from the 
king at a high rate, paying him three hundred marks 
of silver for his one mark of gold. Nor was this the 
end. The silver marks proved to be light in weight. 
To appease the king’s anger at this, another three 
hundred silver marks were offered, and King William 
graciously suffered them to say their prayers thence¬ 
forward in peace. Their treachery to Here ward had 
not proved profitable to the traitors. 

If now we return to the story of Hereward the 
Wake, we must once more leave the realm of history 
for that of legend, for what further is told of him, 
though doubtless based on fact, is strictly legendary 
in structure. Landing on the coast of Lincolnshire, 
the fugitives abandoned their light ships for the wide- 
spreading forests of that region, and long lived the 
life of outlaws in the dense woodland adjoining 
Hereward’s ancestral home of Bourne. Like an 


HEREWARD THE WAKE. 


69 


earlier Eobin Hood, the valiant Wake made the green¬ 
wood his home and the Normans his prey, covering 
nine shires in his bold excursions, which extended as 
far as the distant town of Warwick. The Abbey of 
Peterborough, with its Norman abbot, was an object 
of his special detestation, and more than once Turold 
and his monks were put to flight, while the abbey 
yielded up a share of its treasures to the bold assail¬ 
ants. 

How long Hereward and his men dwelt in the 
greenwood we are not able to say. They defied there 
the utmost efforts of their foes, and King William, 
whose admiration for his defiant enemy had not de¬ 
creased, despairing of reducing him by force, made 
him overtures of peace. Hereward was ready for 
them. He saw clearly by this time that the Norman 
yoke was fastened too firmly on England’s neck to be 
thrown off. He had fought as long as fighting was 
of use. Surrender only remained. A day came at 
length in which he rode from the forest with forty 
stout warriors at his back, made his way to the royal 
seat of Winchester, and knocked at the city gates, 
bidding the guards to carry the news to the con¬ 
queror that Hereward the Wake had come. 

William gladly received him. He knew the value 
of a valiant soul, and was thereafter a warm friend 
of Hereward, who, on his part, remained as loyal and 
true to the king as he had been strong and earnest 
against him. And so years passed on, Hereward in 
favor at court, and he and Torfrida, his Flemish wife, 
living happily in the castle which William’s bounty 
had provided them. 


70 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


There is more than one story of Hereward’s final 
fate. One account says that he ended his days in 
peace. The other, more in accordance with the spirit 
of the times and the hatred and jealousy felt by 
many of the Norman nobles against this English 
protege of the king, is so stirring in its details that 
it serves as a fitting termination to the Hereward 
romance. 

The story goes that he kept close watch and ward 
in his house against his many enemies. But on one 
occasion his chaplain, Ethelward, then on lookout 
duty, fell asleep on his post. A band of Normans 
was approaching, who broke into the house without 
warning being given, and attacked Hereward alone 
in his hall. 

He had barely time to throw on his armor when 
his enemies burst in upon him and assailed him with 
sword and spear. The fight that ensued was one 
that would have gladdened the soul of a Yiking of 
old. Hereward laid about him with such savage 
energy that the floor was soon strewn with the dead 
bodies of his foes, and crimsoned with their blood. 
Finally the spear broke in the hero’s hand. Next 
he grasped his sword and did with it mighty deeds 
of valor. This, too, was broken in the stress of fight. 
His shield was the only weapon left him, and this 
he used with such vigor and skill that before he had 
done fifteen Normans lay dead upon the floor. 

Four of his enemies now got behind him and smote 
him in the back. The great warrior was brought to 
his knees. A Breton knight, Balph of Dol, rushed 
upon him, but found the wounded lion dangerous 


HEREWARD THE WAKE. 


71 


still. With a last desperate effort Hereward struck 
him a deadly blow with his buckler, and Breton and 
Saxon fell dead together to the floor. Another of the 
assailants, Asselin by name, now cut off the head of 
this last defender of Saxon England, and holding it 
in the air, swore by God and his might that he had 
never before seen a man of such valor and strength, 
and that if there had been three more like him in 
the land the French would have been driven out of 
England, or been slain on its soil. 

And so ends the stirring story of Hereward the 
Wake, that mighty man of old. 


THE DEATH OF THE RED 

KING . 


William or Normandy, by the grace of God and 
his iron mace, had made himself king of England. 
An iron king he proved, savage, ruthless, the descend¬ 
ant at a few generations of pirate Norsemen, and him¬ 
self a pirate in blood and temper. England strained 
uneasily under the harsh rein which he placed upon 
it, and he harried the country mercilessly, turning a 
great area of fertile land into a desert. That he 
might have a hunting-park near the royal palace, he 
laid waste all the land that lay between Winchester 
and the sea, planting there, in place of the homes 
destroyed and families driven out, what became 
known as the “New Forest.” Nothing angered the 
English more than this ruthless act. A law had been 
passed that any one caught killing a deer in William’s 
new hunting-grounds should have his eyes put out. 
Men prayed for retribution. It came. The New 
Forest proved fatal to the race of the conqueror. 
In 1081 his oldest son Richard mortally wounded 
himself within its precincts. In May of the year 
1100 his grandson Richard, son of Duke Robert, was 
killed there by a stray arrow. And, as if to empha- • 
size more strongly this work of retribution, two 
months afterwards William Rufus, the Red Kinc, 

1 O' 

72 


THE DEATH OF THE RED KING. 


73 


the son of the Conqueror, was slain in the same 
manner within its leafy shades. 

William Rufus—William II. of England—was, like 
all his Norman ancestors, fond of the chase. When 
there were no men to be killed, these fierce old dukes 
and kings solaced themselves with the slaughter of 
beasts. In early summer of the year 1100 the Red 
Iving was at Winchester Castle, on the skirts of the 
New Forest. Thence he rode to Malwood-Keep, a 
favorite hunting-lodge in the forest. Boon compan¬ 
ions were with him, numbers of them, one of them a 
French knight named Sir Walter Tyrrell, the king’s 
favorite. Here the days were spent in the delights 
of the chase, the nights in feasting and carousing, 
and all went merrily. 

Around them spread far and wide the umbrageous 
lanes and alleys of the New Forest, trees of every 
variety, oaks in greatest number, crowding the soil. 
As yet there were no trees of mighty girth. The 
forest was young. Few of its trees had more than a 
quarter-century of growth, except where more an¬ 
cient woodland had been included. The place was 
solitary, tenanted only by the deer which had re¬ 
placed man upon its soil, and by smaller creatures of 
wing and fur. Rarely a human foot trod there, save 
when the king’s hunting retinue swept through its 
verdant aisles and woke its solitary depths with the 
cheerful notes of the hunting-horn. The savage laws 
of the Conqueror kept all others but the most daring 
poachers from its aisles. 

Such was the stage set for the tragedy which we 
have to relate. The story goes that rough jestp 

7 


D 


74 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


passed at Malwood-Keep between Tyrrell and the 
king, ending in anger, as jests are apt to. William 
boasted that he would carry an army through France 
to the Alps. Tyrrell, heated with wine, answered 
that he might find France a net easier to enter than 
to escape from. The hearers remembered these bitter 
words afterwards. 

On the night before the fatal day it is said that 
cries of terror came from the king’s bedchamber. 
The attendants rushed thither, only to find that the 
monarch had been the victim of nightmare. When 
morning came he laughed the incident to scorn, say¬ 
ing that dreams were fit to scare only old women and 
children. His companions were not so easily satisfied. 
Those were days when all men’s souls were open to 
omens good and bad. They earnestly advised him 
not to hunt that day. William jested at their fears, 
vowed that no dream should scare him from the 
chase, yet, uneasy at heart, perhaps, let the hours 
pass without calling for his horse. Midday came. 
Dinner was served. William ate and drank with un¬ 
usual freedom. Wine warmed his blood and drove 
off his clinging doubts. He rose fiom the table and 
ordered his horse to be brought. The day was young 
enough still to strike a deer, he said. 

The king was in high spirits. He joked freely 
with his guests as he mounted his horse and pre¬ 
pared for the chase. As he sat in his saddle a wood¬ 
man presented him six new arrows. He examined 
them, declared that they were well made and proper 
shafts, and put four of them in his quiver, handing 
the other two to Walter Tyrrell. 


THE DEATH OF THE RED KINO. 75 

“ These are for yon,” he said. “ Good marksmen 
should have good arms.” 

Tyrrell took them, thanked William for the gift, 
and the hunting-party was about to start, when 
there appeared a monk who asked to speak with the 
king. 

“ I come from the convent of St. Peter, at Glouces¬ 
ter,” he said. “ The abbot bids me give a message 
to your majesty.” 

“ Abbot Serlon; a good Norman he,” said the king. 
“ What would he say ?” 

“ Your majesty,” said the monk, with great humil¬ 
ity, “ he bids me state that one of his monks has 
dreamed a dream of evil omen. He deems the king 
should know it.” 

“ A dream!” declared the king. “ Has he sent you 
hither to carry shadows? Well, tell me your dream. 
Time presses.” 

“ The dream was this. The monk, in his sleep, 
saw Jesus Christ sitting on a throne, and at his feet 
kneeled a woman, who supplicated him in these 
words: 1 Saviour of the human race, look down with 
pity on thy people groaning under the yoke of Wil¬ 
liam.’ ” 

The king greeted this message with a loud laugh. 

“ Do they take me for an Englishman, with their 
dreams?” he asked. “Do they fancy that I am fool 
enough to give up my plans because a monk dreams 
or an old woman sneezes? Go, tell your abbot I 
have heard his story. Come, Walter de Poix, to 
horse!” 

The train swept away, leaving the monkish mes* 


76 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


senger alone, the king’s disdainful laugh still in his 
ears. With William were his brother Henry, long 
at odds with him, now reconciled, William de Bret- 
euil, and several other nobles. Quickly they van¬ 
ished among the thickly clustering trees, and soon 
broke up into small groups, each of which took its 
own route through the forest. Walter Tyrrell alone 
remained with the king, their dogs hunting together. 

That was the last that was seen of William, the 
Red King, alive. When the hunters returned he 
was not with them. Tyrrell, too, was missing. 
What had become of them ? Search was made, but 
neither could be found, and doubt and trouble of 
soul pervaded Malwood-Keep. 

The shades of night were fast gathering when a 
poor charcoal-burner, passing with his cart through 
the forest, came upon a dead body stretched bleed¬ 
ing upon the grass. An arrow had pierced its breast. 
Lifting it into his cart, wrapped in old linen, he 
jogged slowly onward, the blood still dripping and 
staining the ground as he passed. Hot till he 
reached the hunting-lodge did he discover that it 
was the corpse of a king he had found in the forest 
depths. The dead body was that of William II. of 
England. 

Tyrrell had disappeared. In vain they sought 
him. He was nowhere to be found. Suspicion 
rested on him. He had murdered the king, men 
said, and fled the land. 

Mystery has ever since shrouded the death of the 
Red King. Tyrrell lived to tell his tale. It was 
probably a true one, though many doubted it. The 


THE DEATH OF THE RED KING. 


77 


Frenchman had quarrelled with the king, men said, 
and had murdered him from revenge. Just why he 
should have murdered so powerful a friend and 
patron, for a taunt passed in jest, was far from evi¬ 
dent. 

Tyrrell’s story is as follows: He and the king had 
taken their stations, opposite one another, waiting 
the work of the woodsmen who were beating up the 
game. Each had an arrow in his cross-bow, his 
finger on the trigger, eagerly listening for the dis¬ 
tant sounds which would indicate the coming of 
game. As they stood thus intent, a large stag sud¬ 
denly broke from the bushes and sprang into the 
space between them. 

William drew, but the bow-string broke in his 
hand. The stag, startled at the sound, stood confused, 
looking suspiciously around. The king signed to Tyr¬ 
rell to shoot, but the latter, for some reason, did not 
obey. William grew impatient, and called out,— 

“Shoot, Walter, shoot, in the devil’s name!” 

Shoot he did. An instant afterwards the king fell 
without word or moan. Tyrrell’s arrow had struck 
a tree, and, glancing, pierced the king’s breast; or it 
may be that an arrow from a more distant bow had 
struck him. When Tyrrell reached his side he was 
dead. 

The French knight knew what would follow if he 
fell into the hands of the king’s companions. He 
could not hope to make people credit his tale. Mount¬ 
ing his horse, he rode with all speed through the 
forest, not drawing rein till the coast was reached. 
He had far outridden the news of the tragedy. 

7* 


78 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Taking ship here, he crossed over in haste to Nor¬ 
mandy, and thence made his way to France, not 
drawing a breath free from care till he felt the soil 
of his native land beneath his feet. Here he lived to 
a good age and died in peace, his life diversified by a 
crusading visit to the Holy Land. 

The end of the Eed King resembled that of his 
father. The Conqueror had been deserted before he 
had fairly ceased breathing, his body left half clad 
on the bare boards of his chamber, while some of his 
attendants rifled the palace, others hastened to offer 
their services to his son. The same scenes followed 
the Eed King’s death. His body was left in the 
charcoal-burner’s cart, clotted with blood, to be con¬ 
veyed to Winchester, while his brother Henry rode 
post-haste thither to seize the royal treasure, and 
the train of courtiers rode as rapid a course, to look 
after their several interests. 

Eeaching the royal palace, Henry imperiously de¬ 
manded the keys of the king’s treasure-chamber. 
Before he received them William de Breteuil entered, 
breathless with haste, and bade the keepers not to 
deliver them. 

“Thou and I,” he said to Henry, “ought loyally 
to keep the faith which we promised to thy brother, 
Duke Eobert; he has received our oath of homasre, 
and, absent or present, he has the right.” 

But what was faith, what an oath, when a crown 
was the prize? A quarrel followed; Henry drew his 
sword; the people around supported him; soon he 
had the treasure and the royal regalia; Eobert might 
have the right, he had the kingdom. 


THE DEATH OF THE RED KING. 79 

There is tradition connected with the Red Kind’s 
death. A stirrup hangs in Lyndhurst Hall, said to 
be that which he used on that fatal day. The char¬ 
coal-burner was named Purkess. There are Pur- 
kesses still in the village of Minstead, near where 
William Rufus died. And the story runs that the 
earthly possessions of the Purkess family have ever 
since been a single horse and cart. A stone marks 
the spot where the king fell, on it the inscription,— 

“ Here stood the oak-tree on which the arrow, shot 
by Walter Tyrrell at a stag, glanced and struck 
King William II., surnamed Rufus, on the breast; 
of which stroke he instantly died on the second of 
August, 1100. 

“That the spot where an event so memorable had 
happened might not hereafter be unknown, this stone 
was set up by John, Lord Delaware, who had seen 
the tree growing in this place, anno 1745.” 

We may end by saying that England was revenged ; 
the retribution for which her children had prayed 
had overtaken the race of the pirate king. That 
broad domain of Saxon England, which William the 
Conqueror had wrested from its owners to make 
himself a hunting-forest, was reddened with the 
blood of two of his sons and a grandson. The hand 
of Heaven had fallen on that cruel race. The New 
Forest was consecrated in the blood of one of the 
Norman kings. 


HO W THE WHITE SHIP SAILED. 


Henry I., king of England, had made peace with 
France. Then to Normandy went the king with a 
great retinue, that he might have Prince William, 
his only and dearly-loved son, acknowledged as his 
successor by the Norman nobles and married to the 
daughter of the count of Anjou. Both these things 
were done; regal was the display, great the rejoicing, 
and on the 25th of November, 1120, the king and 
his followers, with the prince and his fair young 
bride, prepared to embark at Barfleur on their tri¬ 
umphant journey home. 

So far all had gone well. Now disaster lowered. 
Fate had prepared a tragedy that was to load the 
king’s soul with life-long grief and yield to English 
history one of its most pathetic tales. 

Of the vessels of the fleet, one of the best was a 
fifty-oared galley called “The White Ship,” com¬ 
manded by a certain Thomas Fitzstephens, whose 
father had sailed the ship on which William the 
Conqueror first came to England’s shores. This 
service Fitzstephens represented to the king, and 
begged that he might be equally honored. 

“ My liege,” he said, “ my father steered the ship 
with the golden boy upon the prow in which your 
80 


now THE WHITE SHIP SAILED. 


81 


father sailed to conquer England. I beseech you to 
grant me the same honor, that of carrying you in 
the White Ship to England.” 

“ I am sorry, friend,” said the king, “ that my 
vessel is already chosen, and that I cannot sail with 
the son of the man who served my father. But the 
prince and all his company shall go along with you 
in the White Ship, which you may esteem an honor 
equal to that of carrying me.” 

By evening of that day the king with his retinue 
had set sail, with a fair wind, for England’s shores, 
leaving the prince with his attendants to follow in 
Fitzstephens’s ship. With the prince were his natural 
brother Bichard, his sister the countess of Perch, 
Bichard, earl of Chester, with his wife, the king’s 
niece, together with one hundred and forty of the 
flower of the young nobility of England and Eor- 
mandy, accompanying whom were many ladies of 
high descent. The whole number of persons taking 
passage on the White Ship, including the crew, were 
three hundred. 

Prince William was but a boy, and one who did 
little honor to his father’s love. He was a dissolute 
youth of eighteen, who had so little feeling for the 
English as to have declared that when he came to the 
throne he would yoke them to the plough like oxen. 
Destiny had decided that the boastful boy should 
not have the opportunity to carry out this threat. 

“ Give three casks of wine, Fitzstephens,” he said, 
“to your crew. My father, the king, has sailed. 
What time have we to make merry here and still 
reach England with the rest ?” 
ii.-/ 


82 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


“ If we sail at midnight,” answered Fitzstephens, 
“ my fifty rowers and the White Ship shall overtake 
the swiftest vessel in the king’s fleet before day¬ 
break.” 

“Then let ns be merry,” said the prince; “the 
night is fine, the time young, let us enjoy it while 
we may.” 

Merry enough they were; the prince and his com 
panions danced in the moonlight on the ship’s deck, 
the sailors emptied their wine-casks, and when at 
last they left the harbor there was not a sober sailor 
on board, and the captain himself was the worse for 
wine. 

As the ship swept from the port, the young nobles, 
heated with wine, hung over the sides and drove 
away with taunts the priests who had come to give 
the usual benediction. Wild youths were they,—the 
most of them,—gay, ardent, in the heyday of life, 
caring mainly for pleasure, and with little heed of 
aught beyond the moment’s whim. There seemed 
naught to give them care, in sooth. The sea lay 
smooth beneath them, the air was mild, the moon 
poured its soft lustre upon the deck, and propitious 
fortune appeared to smile upon the ship as it rushed 
onward, under the impulse of its long banks of oars, 
in haste to overtake the distant fleet of the king. 

All went merrily. Fitzstephens grasped the helm, 
his soul proud with the thought that, as his father 
had borne the Conqueror to England’s strand, he was 
bearing the pride of younger England, the heir to 
the throne. On the deck before him his passengers 
were gathered in merry groups, singing, laughing, 


HOW THE WHITE SHIP SAILED. 


83 


chatting, the ladies in their rich-lined mantles, the 
gentlemen in their bravest attire; while to the sound 
of song and merry talk the well-timed fall of the 
oars and swash of driven waters made refrain. 

They had reached the harbor’s mouth. The open 
ocean lay before them. In a few minutes more they 
would be sweeping over the Atlantic’s broad expanse. 
Suddenly there came a frightful crash; a shock that 
threw numbers of the passengers headlong to the 
deck, and tore the oars from the rowers’ hands; a 
cry of terror that went up from three hundred 
throats. It is said that some of the people in the 
far-of ships heard that cry, faint, far, despairing, 
borne to them over miles of sea, and asked them¬ 
selves in wonder what it could portend. 

It portended too much wine and too little heed. 
The vessel, carelessly steered, had struck upon a 
rock, the Catee-raze , at the harbor’s mouth, with such 
violence that a gaping wound was torn in her prow, 
and the waters instantly began to rush in. 

The White Ship was injured, was filling, would 
quickly sink. Wild consternation prevailed. There 
was but one boat, and that small. Fitzstephens, 
sobered by the concussion, hastily lowered it, crowded 
into it the prince and a few nobles, and bade them 
hastily to push off and row to the land. 

“ It is not far,” he said, “ and the sea is smooth. 
The rest of us must die.” 

They obeyed. The boat was pushed off, the oars 
dropped into the water, it began to move from the 
ship. At that moment, amid the cries of horror and 
despair on the sinking vessel, came one that met the 


84 


HISTORICAL TALES 


prince’s ear in piteous appeal. It was the voice of 
his sister, Marie, the countess of Perch, crying to 
him for help. 

In that moment of frightful peril Prince William’s 
heart beat true. 

“ Eow back at any risk!” he cried. “ My sister 
must be saved. I cannot bear to leave her.” 

They rowed back. But the hope that from that 
panic-stricken multitude one woman could be selected 
was wild. Mo sooner had the boat reached the ship’s 
side than dozens madly sprung into it, in such num¬ 
bers that it was overturned. At almost the same 
moment the White Ship went down, dragging all 
within reach into her eddying vortex. Death spread 
its sombre wings over the spot where, a few brief 
minutes before, life and joy had ruled. 

When the tossing eddies subsided, the pale moon¬ 
light looked down on but two souls of all that gay 
and youthful company. These clung to a spar which 
had broken loose from the mast and floated on the 
waves, or to the top of the mast itself, which stood 
above the surface. 

“ Only two of us, out of all that gallant com¬ 
pany!” said one of these in despairing tones. “Who 
are you, friend and comrade ?” 

“ I am a nobleman, Godfrey, the son of Gilbert do 
D’Aigle. And you ?” he asked. 

“ I am Berold, a poor butcher of Bouen,” was the 
answer. 

“ God be merciful to us both!” they then cried 
together. 

Immediately afterwards they saw a third, who had 


now TOE WHITE SHIP SAILED. , 85 

risen and was swimming towards them. As he drew 
near he pushed the wet, clinging hair from his face, 
and they saw the white, agonized countenance of 
Fitzstephens. He gazed at them with eager eyes; 
then cast a long, despairing look on the waters 
around him. 

“ Where is the prince ?” he asxed, in tones that 
seemed to shudder with terror. 

“ Gone! gone!” they cried. “Hot one of all on 
board, except we three, has risen above the water.” 

“Woe! woe, to me!” moaned Fitzstephens. He 
ceased swimming, turned to them a face ghastly with 
horror, and then sank beneath the waves, to join the 
goodly company whom his negligence had sent to a 
watery death. He dared not live to meet the father 
of his charge. 

The two continued to cling to their support. But 
the water had in it the November chill, the night 
was long, the tenderl} T -reared nobleman lacked the 
endurance of his humbler companion. Before day 
dawn he said, in faint accents,— 

“ I am exhausted and chilled with the cold. I can 
hold on no longer. Farewell, good friend! God 
preserve you!” 

He loosed his hold and sank. The butcher of Eouen 
remained alone. 

When day came some fisherman saw this clinging 
form from the shore, rowed out, and brought him in, 
the sole one living of all that goodly company. A 
few hours before the pride and hope of Normandy 
and England had crowded that noble ship. Now 
only a base-born butcher survived to tell the story 

8 


86 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


of disaster, and the stately White Ship, with her 
noble freightage, lay buried beneath the waves. 

For three days no one dared tell King Henry the 
dreadful story. Such was his love for his son that 
they feared his grief might turn to madness, and 
their lives pay the forfeit of their venture. At length 
a little lad was sent in to him with the tale. Weep¬ 
ing bitterly, and kneeling at the king’s feet, the child 
told in broken accents the story which had been 
taught him, how the White Ship had gone to the 
bottom at the mouth of Barfleur harbor, and all on 
board been lost save one poor commoner. Prince 
William, his son, was dead. 

The king heard him to the end, with slowly 
whitening face and horror-stricken eyes. At the con¬ 
clusion of the child’s narrative the monarch fell pros¬ 
trate to the floor, and lay there long like one stricken 
with death. The chronicle of this sad tragedy ends 
in one short phrase, which is weighty with its burden 
of grief,—From that day on King Henry never 
smiled again I 


THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD 
CCEUR DE LION. 


In the month of October, in the year of onr Lord 
1192, a pirate vessel touched land on the coast of 
Sclavonia, at the port of Yara. Those were days in 
which it was not easy to distinguish between pirates 
and true mariners, either in aspect or avocation, 
neither being afflicted with much inconvenient hon¬ 
esty, both being hungry for spoil. From this vessel 
were landed a number of passengers,—knights, chap¬ 
lains, and servants,—Crusaders on their way home 
from the Holy Land, and in need, for their overland 
journey, of a safe-conduct from the lord of the 
province. 

He who seemed chief among the travellers sent a 
messenger to the ruler of Yara, to ask for this safe- 
conduct, and bearing a valuable ruby ring which he 
was commissioned to offer him as a present. The 
lord of Yara received this ring, which he gazed upon 
with eyes of doubt and curiosity. It was too valu¬ 
able an offer for a small service, and he had surely 
heard of this particular ruby before. 

“Who are they lhat have sent thee to ask a free 
passage of me ?” he asked the messenger. 

“ Some pilgrims returning from Jerusalem,” was 
the answer- 


87 


88 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


“ And by what names call you these pilgrims ?” 

“ One is called Baldwin de Bethune,” rejoined the 
messenger. “ The other, he who sends you this ring, 
is named Hugh the merchant.” 

The ruler fixed his eyes again upon the ring, 
which he examined with close attention. He at 
length replied,— 

“ You had better have told me the truth, for youi 
ring reveals it. This man’s name is not Hugh, but 
Bichard, king of England. His gift is a royal one, 
and, since he wished to honor me with it without 
knowing me, I return it to him, and leave him free to 
depart. Should I do as duty bids, I would hold him 
prisoner.” 

It was indeed Eichard Cceur de Lion, on his way 
home from the Crusade which he had headed, and in 
which his arbitrary and imperious temper had made 
enemies of the rulers of France and Austria, who 
accompanied him. He had concluded with Saladin a 
truce of three years, three months, three days, and 
three hours, and then, disregarding his oath that ho 
would not leave the Holy Land while he had a horse 
left to feed on, he set sail in haste for home. He 
had need to, for his brother John was intriguing to 
seize the throne. 

On his way home, finding that he must land and 
proceed part of the way overland, he dismissed all 
his suite but a few attendants, fearing to be recog¬ 
nized and detained. The single vessel which he now 
possessed was attacked by pirates, but the fight, sin¬ 
gularly enough, ended in a truce, and was followed 
by so close a friendship between Eichard and the 


THE CAPTIVITY OP RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 89 

pirate captain that he left his vessel for theirs, and 
was borne by them to Yara. 

The ruler of Yara was a relative of the marquis 
of Montferrat, whose death in Palestine was imputed 
to Richard’s influence. The king had, therefore, un¬ 
wittingly revealed himself to an enemy and was in 
imminent danger of arrest. On receiving the mes¬ 
sage sent him he set out at once, not caring to linger 
in so doubtful a neighborhood. No attempt was made 
to stop him. The lord of Yara was in so far faith¬ 
ful to his word. But he had not promised to keep 
the king’s secret, and at once sent a message to his 
brother, lord of a neighboring town, that King Rich¬ 
ard of England was in the country, and would prob¬ 
ably pass through his town. 

There was a chance that he might pass undiscov¬ 
ered; pilgrims from Palestine were numerous; Rich¬ 
ard reached the town, where no one knew him, and 
obtained lodging with one of its householders as 
Hugh, a merchant from the East. 

As it happened, the lord of the town had in his 
service a Norman named Roger, formerly from Ar- 
gonton. To him he sent, and asked him if he knew 
the king of England. 

“ No; I never saw him,” said Roger. 

“But you know his language—the Norman French; 
there may be some token by which you can recog¬ 
nize him; go seek him in the inns where pilgrims 
lodge, or elsewhere. He is a prize well worth taking. 
If you put him in my hands I will give you the gov¬ 
ernment of half my domain.” 

Roger set out upon his quest, and continued it for 

8 * 


90 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


several days, first visiting the inns, and then going 
from house to house of the town, keenly inspecting 
every stranger. The king was really there, and at 
last was discovered by the eager searcher. Though 
in disguise, Eoger suspected him. That mighty bulk, 
those muscular limbs, that imperious face, could be¬ 
long to none but him who had swept through the 
Saracen hosts with a battle-axe which no other of 
the Crusaders could wield. Eoger questioned him so 
closely that the king, after seeking to conceal his iden¬ 
tity, was at length forced to reveal who he really was. 

“ I am not your foe, but your friend,” cried Eoger, 
bursting into tears. “ You are in imminent danger 
here, my liege, and must fly at once. My best horse 
is at your service. Make your escape, without delay, 
out of German territory.” 

Waiting until he saw the king safely horsed, Eoger 
returned to his master, and told him that the report 
was a false one. The only Crusader he had found in 
the town was Baldwin de Bethune, a Morman knight, 
on his way home from Palestine. The lord, furious 
at his disappointment, at once had Baldwin arrested 
and imprisoned. But Bichard had escaped. 

The flying king hurried onward through the Ger¬ 
man lands, his only companions now being William 
de l’Etang, his intimate friend, and a valet who could 
speak the language of the country, and who served 
as their interpreter. For three days and three nights 
the travellers pursued their course, without food or 
shelter, not daring to stop or accost any of the in¬ 
habitants. At length they arrived at Yienna, com¬ 
pletely worn out with hunger and fatigue. 


THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 91 

The fugitive king could have sought no more dan¬ 
gerous place of shelter. Yienna was the capital of 
Duke Leopold of Austria, whom Bichard had mortally 
offended in Palestine, by tearing down his banner 
and planting the standard of England in its place. 
Yet all might have gone well but for the servant, 
who, while not a traitor, was as dangerous a thing, a 
fool. He was sent out from the inn to exchange the 
gold byzantines of the travellers for Austrian coin, 
and took occasion to make such a display of his 
money, and assume so dignified and courtier-like an 
air, that the citizens grew suspicious of him and took 
him before a magistrate to learn who he was. He 
declared that he was the servant of a rich merchant 
who was on his way to Yienna, and would be there 
in three days. This reply quieted the suspicions of 
the people, and the foolish fellow was released. 

In great affright he hastened to the king, told him 
what had happened, and begged him to leave the 
town at once. The advice was good, but a three- 
days’ journey without food or shelter called for some 
repose, and Bichard decided to remain some days 
longer in the town, confident that, if they kept quiet, 
no further suspicion would arise. 

Meanwhile, the news of the incident at Yara had 
spread through the country and reached Yienna. 
Duke Leopold heard it with a double sentiment of 
enmity and avarice. Bichard had insulted him; here 
was a chance for revenge ; and the ransom of such a 
prisoner would enrich his treasury, then, presumably, 
none too full. Spies and men-at-arms were sent out 
in search of travellers who might answer to the 


92 


HISTORICAL TALES 


description of the burly English monarch. For days 
they traversed the country, but no trace of him 
could be found. Leopold did not dream that his 
mortal foe was in hi3 own city, comfortably lodged 
within a mile of his palace. 

Bichard’s servant, who had imperilled him before, 
now succeeded in finishing his work of folly. One 
day he appeared in the market to purchase provisions, 
foolishly bearing in his girdle a pair of richly em¬ 
broidered gloves, such as only great lords wore when 
in court attire. The fellow was arrested again, and 
this time, suspicion being increased, was put to the 
torture. Yery little of this sharp discipline sufficed 
him. He confessed whom he served, and told the 
magistrate at what inn King Bichard might be 
found. 

Within an hour afterwards the inn was surrounded 
by soldiers of the duke, and Bichard, taken by sur¬ 
prise, was forced to surrender. He was brought be¬ 
fore the duke, who recognized him at a glance, 
accosted him with great show of courtesy, and with 
every display of respect ordered him to be taken to 
prison, where picked soldiers with drawn swords 
guarded him day and night. 

The news that King Bichard was a prisoner in an 
Austrian fortress spread through Europe, and every¬ 
where gave joy to the rulers of the various realms. 
Brave soldier as he was, he of the lion heart had suc¬ 
ceeded in offending all his kingly comrades in the 
Crusade, and they rejoiced over his captivity as one 
might over the caging of a captured lion. The 
emperor of Austria called upon his vassal, Duke 


THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD CCEUR DE LION 93 

Leopold, to deliver the prisoner to him, saying that 
none but an emperor had the right to imprison a 
king. The duke assented, and the emperor, filled 
with glee, sent word of his good fortune to the king 
of France, who returned answer that the news was 
more agreeable to him than a present of gold or topaz. 
As for John, the brother of the imprisoned king, he 
made overtures for an alliance with Philip of France, 
redoubled his intrigues in England and Normandy, 
and secretly instigated the emperor to hold on firmly 
to his royal prize. All Europe seemed to be leagued 
against the unlucky king, who lay in bondage within 
the stern walls of a G-erman prison. 

And now we feel tempted to leave awhile the do¬ 
main of sober history, and enter that of romance, 
which tells one of its prettiest stories about King 
Bichard’s captivity. The story goes that the people 
of England knew not what had become of their king. 
That he was held in durance vile somewhere in Ger¬ 
many they had been told, but Germany was a broad 
land and had many prisons, and none knew which 
held the lion-hearted king. Before he could be res¬ 
cued he must be found, and how should this be done ? 

Those were the days of the troubadours, who 
sang their lively lays not only in Provence but in 
other lands. Bichard himself composed lays and 
sang them to the harp, and Blondel, a troubadour 
of renown, was his favorite minstrel, accompanying 
him wherever he went. This faithful singer mourned 
bitterly the captivity of his king, and at length, bent 
on finding him, went wandering through foreign 
lands, singing under the walls of fortresses and pris- 


94 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


ons a lay which Richard well knew. Many weary 
days he wandered without response, almost without 
hope; yet still faithful Blondel roamed on, heedless 
of the palaces of the land, seeking only its prisons 
and strongholds. 

At length arrived a day in which, from a fortress 
window above his head, came an echo of the strain 
he had just sung. He listened in ecstasy. Those 
were Norman words; that was a well-known voice ; 
it could be but the captive king. 

“ O Richard! O my king! ” sang the minstrel again, 
in a song of his own devising. 

From above came again the sound of familiar song. 
Filled with joy, the faithful minstrel sought Eng¬ 
land’s shores, told the nobles where the king could be 
found, and made strenuous exertions to obtain his 
ransom, efforts which were at length crowned with 
success. 

Through the alluring avenues of romance the voice 
of Blondel still comes to us, singing his signal lay of 
“ O Richard ! O my king! ” but history has made no 
record of the pretty tale, and back to history we 
must turn. 

The imprisoned king was placed on trial before the 
German Diet at Worms, charged with—no one knows 
what. Whatever the charge, the sentence was that 
he should pay a ransom of one hundred thousand 
pounds of silver, and acknowledge himself a vassal 
of the emperor. The latter, a mere formality, was 
gone through with as much pomp and ceremony as 
though it was likely to have any binding force upon 
English kin s^s. The former, the raising of the monev, 


TI1E CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD COEUll DE LION. 95 

was more difficult. Two years passed, and still it was 
not all paid. The royal prisoner, weary of his long 
captivity, complained bitterly of the neglect of his 
people and friends, singing his woes in a song com¬ 
posed in the polished dialect of Provence, the land 
of the troubadours. 

“ There is no man, however base, whom for want 
of money I would let lie in a prison cell,” he sang. 
“ I do not say it as a reproach, but I am still a pris¬ 
oner.” 

A part of the ransom at length reached Germany, 
whose emperor sent a third of it to the duke of 
Austria as his share of the prize, and consented to 
the liberation of his captive in the third week after 
Christmas if he would leave hostages to guarantee 
the remaining payment. 

Richard agreed to everything, glad to escape from 
prison on any terms. But the news of this agree¬ 
ment spread until it reached the ears of Philip of 
France and his ally, John. Dread filled their hearts 
at the tidings. Their plans for seizing on England 
and Normandy were not yet complete. In great 
haste Philip sent messengers to the emperor, offering 
him seventy thousand marks of silver if he would 
hold his prisoner for one year longer, or, if he pre¬ 
ferred, a thousand pounds of silver for each month 
of captivity. If he would give the prisoner into the 
custody of Philip and his ally, they would pay a 
hundred and fifty thousand marks for the prize. 

The offer was a tempting one. It dazzled the mind 
of the emperor, whose ideas of honor were not very 
deeply planted. But the members of the Diet would 


96 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


not suffer him to break his faith. Their power was 
great, even over the emperor’s, will, and the royal 
prisoner, after his many weary months of captivity, 
was set free. 

Word of the failure of his plans came quickly to 
Philip’s knavish cars, and he wrote in haste to his 
confederate, “ The devil is loose; take care of your¬ 
self,” an admonition which John was quite likely to 
obey. His hope of seizing the crown vanished. 
There remained to meet his placable brother with a 
show of fraternal loyalty. 

But Richard was delayed in his purpose of reach¬ 
ing England, and danger again threatened him. He 
had been set free near the end of January, 1194. 
He dared not enter France, and Normandy, then 
invaded by the French, was not safe for him. His 
best course was to take ship at a German port and 
sail for England. B*ut it was the season of storms; 
he lay a month at Anvers imprecating the weather; 
meanwhile, avarice overcame both fear and honor in 
the emperor’s heart, the large sum offered him out¬ 
weighed the opposition of the lords of the Diet, and 
he resolved to seize the prisoner again and profit by 
the French king’s golden bribe. 

Fortunately for Richard, the perfidious emperor 
allowed the secret of his design to get adrift; one 
of the hostages left in his hands heard of it and 
found means to warn the king. Richard, at this 
tidings, stayed not for storm, but at once took pass¬ 
age in the galliot of a Norman trader named Alain 
Franchemer, narrowly escaping the men-at-arms sent 
to take him prisoner. Not many days afterwards he 



STATUE OF RICHARD CCEUR DE LION 



















































THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD CCEUR DE LION 97 

landed at the Eng'lish port of Sandwich, once more 
a free man and a king. 

What followed in Richard’s life we design not to 
tell, other than the story of his life’s ending with its 
romantic incidents. The liberated king had not been 
long on his native soil before he succeeded in securing 
Normandy against the invading French, building on 
its borders a powerful fortress, which he called his 
“ Saucy Castle,” and the ruins of whose sturdy walls 
still remain. Philip was wrathful when he saw its 
ramparts growing. 

“ I will take it were its walls of iron,” he declared. 

“ I would hold it were the walls of butter,” Richard 
defiantly replied. 

It was church land, and the archbishop placed 
Normandy under an interdict. Richard laughed at 
his wrath, and persuaded the pope to withdraw the 
curse. A “rain of blood” fell, which scared his 
courtiers, but Richard laughed at it as he had at the 
bishop’s wrath. 

“ Had an angel from heaven bid him abandon his 
work, he would have answered with a curse,” says 
one writer. 

“ How pretty a child is mine, this child of but a 
year old!” said Richard, gladly, as he saw the walls 
proudly rise. 

He needed money to finish it. His kingdom had 
been drained to pay his ransom. But a rumor 
reached him that a treasure had been found at Li¬ 
mousin,—twelve knights of gold seated round a 
golden table, said the story. Richard claimed it. 
The lord of Limoges refused to surrender it. Rieh- 
ii .—e g 9 


98 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


ard assailed his castle. It was stubbornly defended. 
In savage wrath he swore he would hang every soul 
within its walls. 

There was an old song which said that an arrow 
would be made in Limoges by which King Biehard 
would die. The song proved a true prediction. One 
night, as the king surveyed the walls, a young sol¬ 
dier, Bertrand de Gourdon by name, drew an arrow 
to its head, and saying, “ How I pray God speed 
thee well I” let fly. 

The shaft struck the king in the left shoulder. 
The wound might have been healed, but unskilful 
treatment made it mortal. The castle was taken 
while Bichard lay dying, and every soul in it hanged, 
as the king had sworn, excejit Bertrand de Gourdon. 
He was brought into the king’s tent, heavily chained. 

“ Knave!” cried Bichard, “ what have I done to 
you that you should take my life ?” 

“ You have killed my father and my two brothers,” 
answered the youth. “ You would have hanged me. 
Let me die now, by any torture you will. My com¬ 
fort is that no torture to me can save you. You, too, 
must die; and through me the world is quit of you.” 

The king looked at him steadily, and with a gleam 
of clemency in his eyes. 

“ Youth,” he said, “ I forgive you. Go unhurt.” 

Then turning to his chief captain, he said,— 

“ Take off his chains, give him a hundred shillings, 
and let him depart.” 

He fell back on his couch, and in a few minutes 
was dead, having signalized his last moments with 
an act of clemency which had had few counterparts 


THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD CCEUR DE LION. 99 

in his life. His clemency was not matched by his 
piety. The priests who were present at his dying 
bed exhorted him to repentance and restitution, but 
he drove them away with bitter mockery, and died 
as hardened a sinner as he had lived. 

As for Bertrand, the chronicles say that he failed 
to profit by the kindness of the king. A dead mon¬ 
arch’s voice has no weight in the land. The par¬ 
doned youth was put to death. 


A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 


Terrible was the misery of England. Torn be¬ 
tween contending factions, like a deer between 
snarling wolves, the people suffered martyrdom, while 
thieves and assassins, miscalled soldiers, and brigands, 
miscalled nobles, ravaged the land and tortured its 
inhabitants. Outrage was law, and death the only 
refuge from barbarity, and at no time in the history 
of England did its people endure such misery as in 
those years of the loosening of the reins of justice 
and mercy which began with 1139 a.d. 

It was the autumn of the year named. At every 
port of England bands of soldiers were landing, with 
arms and baggage; along every road leading from 
the coast bands of soldiers were marching ; in every 
town bands of soldiers were mustering ; here joining 
in friendly union, there coming into hostile contact, 
for they represented rival parties, and were speeding 
to the gathering points of their respective leaders. 

All England was in a ferment, men every where 
arming and marching. All Normandy was in tur¬ 
moil, soldiers of fortune crowding to every port, eager 
to take part in the harrying of the island realm. 
The Norman nobles of England were everywhere 
fortifying their castles, which had been sternly pro- 
100 


A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 


101 


bibited by the recent king. Law and authority 
were for the time being abrogated, and every man 
was preparing to fight for his own hand and his own 
land. A single day, almost, had divided the Nor¬ 
mans of England into two factions, not yet come to 
blows, but facing each other like wild beasts at bay. 
And England and the English were the prey craved 
by both these herds of human wolves. 

There were two claimants to the throne: Matilda, 
—or Maud, as she is usually named,—daughter of 
Henry I., and Stephen of Blois, grandson of Wil¬ 
liam the Conqueror. Henry had named his daughter 
as his successor; Stephen seized the throne; the 
issue was sharply drawn between them. Maud’s 
mother had been of ancient English descent, which 
gave her popularity among the Saxon inhabitants 
of the land. Stephen was personally popular, a 
good-humored, generous prodigal, his very faults 
tending to make him a favorite. Yet he was born 
to be a swordsman, not a king, and his only idea of 
royalty was to let the land rule—or misrule if it 
preferred—itself, while he enjoyed the pleasures and 
declined the toils of kingship. 

A few words will suffice to bring the history of 
those turbulent times up to the date of the opening 
of our story. The death of Henry I. was followed 
by anarchy in England. His daughter Maud, wife 
of Geofiry the Handsome, Count of Anjou, was 
absent from the land. Stephen, Count of Blois, and 
son of Adela, the Conqueror’s daughter, was the first 
to reach it. Speeding across tho Channel, he hurried 
through England, then in the turmoil of lawlessness, 

9 * 


102 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


no noble joining him, no town opening to him its 
gates, until London was reached. There the coldness 
of his route was replaced by the utmost warmth of 
welcome. The city poured from its gates to meet 
him, hastened to elect him king, swore to defend him 
with blood and treasure, and only demanded in re¬ 
turn that the new king should do his utmost to 
pacify the realm. 

Here Stephen failed. He was utterly unfit to 
govern. While he thought only of profligate enjoy¬ 
ment, the barons fortified their castles and became 
petty kings in their several domains. The great 
prelates followed their example. Then, for the first 
time, did Stephen awake from his dream of pleasure 
and attempt to play the king. He seized Koger, 
Bishop of Salisbury, and threw him into prison to 
force him to surrender his fortresses. This precipi¬ 
tated the trouble that brooded over England. The 
king lost the support of the clergy by his violence to 
their leader, alienated many of the nobles by his 
hasty action, and gave Maud the opportunity for 
which she had waited. She lost no time in offering 
herself to the English as a claimant to the crown. 

Her landing was made on the 22d of Septembei, 
1139, on the coast of Sussex. Here she threw her¬ 
self into Arundel Castle, and quickly afterwards made 
her way to Bristol Castle, then held by her illegiti¬ 
mate brother, Kobert, Earl of Gloucester. 

And now the state of affairs we had described 
began. The nobles of the north and west of England 
renounced their allegiance to Stephen and swore 
allegiance to Maud. London and the east remained 


A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 


103 


faithful to the king. A stream of men-at-arms, hired 
by both factions, poured from the neighboring coast 
of Normandy into the disputed realm. Each side 
had promised them, for their pay, the lands and 
wealth of the other. Like vultures to the feast they 
came, with little heed to the rights of the rival claim¬ 
ants and the wrongs of the people, with much heed 
to their own private needs and ambitions. 

In England such anarchy ruled as that land of 
much intestine war has rarely witnessed. The Nor¬ 
man nobles prepared in haste for the civil war, and 
in doing so made the English their prey. To raise 
the necessary funds, many of them sold their do¬ 
mains, townships, and villages, with the inhabitants 
thereof and all their goods. Others of them made 
forays on the lands of those of the opposite faction, 
and seized cattle, horses, sheep, and men alike, car¬ 
rying off the English in chains, that they might 
force them by torture to yield what wealth they 
possessed. 

Terror ruled supreme. The realm was in a panic 
of dread. So great was the alarm, that the inhabi¬ 
tants of city and town alike took to flight if they 
saw a distant group of horsemen approaching. Three 
or four armed men were enough to empty a town of 
its inhabitants. It was in Bristol, where Maud and 
her foreign troops lay, that the most extreme terror 
prevailed. All day long men were being brought 
into the city bound and gagged. The citizens had 
no immunity. Soldiers mingled among them in dis¬ 
guise, their arms concealed, their talk in the English 
tongue, strolling through markets and streets, listen 


104 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


ing to the popular chat, and then suddenly seizing 
any one who seemed to bo in easy circumstances. 
These they would drag to their head-quarters and 
hold to ransom. 

The air was filled with tales of the frightful bar¬ 
barities practised by the Norman nobles on the un- 
happy English captives in the depths of their gloomy 
castles. “ They carried off,” says the Saxon chronicle, 
“ all who they thought possessed any property, men 
and women, by day and by night; and whilst they 
kept them imprisoned, they inflicted on them tortures, 
such as no martyr ever underwent, in order to obtain 
gold and silver from them.” We must be excused 
from quoting the details of these tortures. 

“ They killed many thousands of people by hunger,” 
continues the chronicle. “ They imposed tribute after 
tribute upon the towns and villages, calling this in 
their tongue tenserie. When the citizens had nothing 
more to give them, they plundered and burnt the 
town. You might have travelled a whole day with¬ 
out finding a single soul in the towns, or a cultivated 
field. The poor died of hunger, and those who had 
been formerly well-off begged their bread from door 
to door. Whoever had it in his power to leave Eng¬ 
land did so. Never was a country delivered up to 
so many miseries and misfortunes; even in the in¬ 
vasions of the pagans it suffered less than now. 
Neither the cemeteries nor the churches were spared ; 
they seized all they could, and then set fire to the 
church. To till the ground was useless. It was 
openly reported that Christ and his saints wero 
sleeping.” 


A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 


105 


One cannot but think that this frightful picture 
is somewhat overdrawn; yet nothing could indicate 
better the condition of a Middle-Age country under 
a weak king, and torn by the adherents of rival 
claimants to the throne. 

Let us leave this tale of torture and horror and 
turn to that of war. In the conflict between Stephen 
and Maud the king took the first step. He led his 
army against Bristol. It proved too strong for him, 
and his soldiers, in revenge, burnt the environs, after 
robbing them of all they could yield. Then, leaving 
Bristol, he turned against the castles on the Welsh 
borders, nearly all of whose lords had declared for 
Maud. 

From the laborious task of reducing these castles 
he was suddenly recalled by an insurrection in the 
territory so far faithful to him. The fens of Ely, in 
whose recesses Hereward the Wake had defied the 
Conquerer, now became the stronghold of a Nor¬ 
man revolt. A baron and a bishop, Baldwin do 
Eevier and Lenior, Bishop of Ely, built stone in- 
trenchments on the island, and defied the king from 
behind the watery shelter of the fens. 

Hither flocked the partisans of Maud ; hither came 
Stephen, filled with warlike fury. He lacked the 
qualities that make a king, but he had those that go 
to make a soldier. The methods of the Conqueror 
in attacking Hereward were followed by Stephen in 
assailing his foes. Bridges of boats were built across 
the fens; over these the king’s cavalry made their 
way to the firm soil of the island; a fierce conflict 
ensued, ending in the rout of the soldiers of Baldwin 


106 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


and Lenior. The bishop fled to Gloucester, whither 
Maud had now proceeded. 

Thus far the king had kept the field, while bis 
rival lay intrenched in her strongholds. But her 
party was earnestly at w T ork. The barons of the 
Welsh marches, whose castles had been damaged by 
the king, repaired them. Even the towers of the 
great churches were filled with war-engines and con¬ 
verted into fortresses, ditches being dug in the 
church-yards around, with little regard to the fact 
that the bones of the dead were unearthed and scat¬ 
tered over the soil. The Norman bishops, completely 
armed, and mounted on war-horses, took part in these 
operations, and were no more scrupulous than the 
barons in torturing the English to force from them 
their hoarded gold and silver. 

Those were certainly not the days of merry Eng¬ 
land. Nor were they days of pious England, when 
the heads of the church, armed with sword and spear, 
led armies against their foes. In truth, a bishop 
ended that first phase of the war. The Bishop of 
Chester rallied the troops which had fled from Ely. 
These grew by rapid accretions until a new army 
was in the field. Stephen attacked it, but the enemy 
held their own, and his troops were routed. They 
fled on all sides, leaving the king alone in the midst 
of his foes. He lacked not courage. Single-handed 
he defended himself against a throng of assailants. 
But his men were in flight; he stood alone; it was 
death or surrender; he yielded himself prisoner. 
He was taken to Gloucester, and thence to Bristol 
castle, in whose dungeons he was imprisoned. Fof 


A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 107 

the time being the war was at an end. Maud was 
queen. 

The daughter of Henry might have reigned during 
the remainder of her life but for pride and folly, two 
faults fitted to wreck the best-built cause. All was 
on her side except herself. Her own arrogance 
drove her from the throne before it had grown warm 
from her sitting. 

For the time, indeed, Stephen’s cause seemed lost. 
He was in a dungeon strongly guarded by his adver¬ 
saries. His partisans went over in crowds to the 
opposite side,—his own brother, Henry, Bishop of 
Winchester, with them. The English peasants, em¬ 
bittered by their oppression, rose against the beaten 
army, and took partial revenge for their wrongs by 
plundering and maltreating the defeated and dispersed 
soldiers in their flight. 

Maud made her way to Winchester, her progress 
being one of royal ostentation. Her entry to the 
town was like a Eoman triumph. She was received 
with all honor, was voted queen in a great convoca¬ 
tion of nobles, prelate^* and knights, and seized the 
royal regalia and the treasures of her vanquished foe. 
All would have gone well with her had not good for¬ 
tune turned her brain. Pride and a haughty spirit 
led to her hasty downfall. 

She grew arrogant and disdainful. Those who had 
made her queen found their requests met with re¬ 
fusal, their advice rejected with scorn. Those of the 
opposite party who had joined her were harshly 
treated. Her most devoted friends and adherents 
soon grew weak in their loyalty, and many withdrew 


108 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


from the court, with the feeling that they had been 
fools to support this haughty woman against the 
generous-hearted soldier who lay in Bristol dungeon. 

From Winchester Maud proceeded to London, 
after having done her cause as much harm as she 
well could in the brief time at her disposal. She 
was looked for in the capital city with sentiments 
of hope and pride. Her mother had been English, 
and the English citizens felt a glow of enthusiasm 
to feel that one whose blood was even half Saxon 
was coming to rule over them. Their pride quickly 
changed into anger and desire for revenge. 

Maud signalized her entrance into London by lay¬ 
ing on the citizens an enormous poll-tax. Stephen had 
done his utmost to beggar them; famine threatened 
them ; in extreme distress they prayed the queen to 
give them time to recover from their present miseries 
before laying fresh taxes on them. 

“ The king has left us nothing,” said their deputies, 
humbly. 

“I understand,” answered Maud, with haughty 
disdain, “ that you have given all to my adversary 
and have conspired with him against me; now you 
expect me to spare you. You shall pay the tax.” 

“ Then,” pleaded the deputies, “ give us something 
in return. Eestore to us the good laws of thy great 
uncle, Edward, in place of those of thy father, King 
Henry, which are bad and too harsh for us.” 

Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make 
mad. The queen listened to the deputies in a rage, 
treated them as if they had been guilty of untold 
insolence in daring to make this request, and with 


A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 


109 


harsh menaces drove them from her presence, bidding 
them to see that the tax was paid, or London should 
suffer bitterly for its contumacy. 

The deputies withdrew with a show of respect, 
but with fury in their hearts, and repaired to their 
council-chamber, whence the news of what had taken 
place sped rapidly through the city. In her palace 
Queen Maud waited in proud security, nothing doubt¬ 
ing that she had humbled those insolent citizens, and 
that the deputies would soon return ready to creep 
on their knees to the foot of her throne and offer a 
golden recompense for their daring demand for milder 
laws. 

Suddenly the bells of London began to ring. In 
the streets adjoining the palace loud voices were 
heard. People seemed gathering rapidly. What 
did it mean? Were these her humbled citizens of 
London? Surely there were threats mingled with 
those harsh cries! Threats against the queen who 
had just entered London in triumph and been received 
with such hearty enthusiasm! Were the Londoners 
mad ? 

She would have thought so had she been in the 
streets. From every house issued a man, armed with 
the first weapon he could find, his face inflamed with 
anger. They flocked out as tumultuously as bees 
from a hive, says an old writer. The streets of 
London, lately quiet, were now filled with a noisy 
throng, all hastening towards the palace, all uttering 
threats against this haughty foreign woman, who 
must have lost every drop of her English blood, they 
declared. 


10 


110 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Tho palace was filled with alarm. It looked as if 
the queen’s Norman blood would be lost as well as 
that from her English sires. She had men-at-arms 
around her, but not enough to be of avail against 
the clustering citizens in those narrow and crooked 
streets. Flight, and that a speedy one, was all that 
remained. White with terror, the queen took to 
horse, and, surrounded by her knights and soldiers, 
fled from London with a haste that illy accorded with 
the stately and deliberate pride with which she had 
recently entered that turbulent capital. 

She was none too soon. The frightened cortege 
had not left the palace far behind it before the 
maddened citizens burst open its doors, searched 
every nook and cranny of the building for the queen 
and her body-guard, and, finding they had fled, 
wreaked their wrath on all that was left, plundering 
the apartments of all they contained. 

Meanwhile, the queen, wild with fright, was gallop¬ 
ing at full speed from the hostile beehive she had 
disturbed. Her barons and knights, in a panic of 
fear and deeming themselves hotly pursued, dropped 
off from the party one by one, hoping for safety by 
leaving the highway for the by-ways, and caring little 
for the queen so that they saved their frightened 
selves. The queen rode on in mad terror until Oxford 
was reached, only her brother, the Earl of Gloucester, 
and a few others keeping her company to that town. 

They fled from a shadow. The citizens had not 
pursued them. These turbulent tradesmen were 
content with ridding London of this power-mad 
woman, and they went back satisfied to their homes, 


A CONTEST FOR A CROWN. 


Ill 


leaving the city open to occupation by the partisans 
of Stephen, who entered it under pretense of an 
alliance with the citizens. The Bishop of Winchester, 
who seems to have been something of a weather¬ 
cock in his political faith, turned again to his brother’s 
side, set Stephen’s banner afloat on Windsor Castle, 
and converted his bishop’s residence into a fortress. 
Robert of Gloucester came with Maud’s troops to 
besiege it. The garrison set fire to the surrounding 
houses to annoy the besiegers. While the town was 
burning, an army from London appeared, fiercely 
attacked the assailants, and forced them to take 
refuge in the churches. These were set on fire to 
drive out the fugitives. The affair ended in Robert 
of Gloucester being taken prisoner and his followers 
dispersed. 

Then once more the Saxon peasants swarmed from 
their huts like hornets from their hives and assailed 
the fugitives, as they had before assailed those from 
Stephen’s army. The proud Normans, whose lan¬ 
guage betrayed them in spite of their attempts at 
disguise, were robbed, stripped of their clothing, 
and driven along the roads by whips in the hands of 
Saxon serfs, who thus repaid themselyes for many 
an act of wrong. The Bishop of Canterbury and 
other high prelates and numbers of great lords 
were thus maltreated, and for once were thoroughly 
humbled by those despised islanders whom their 
fathers had enslaved. 

Thus ended the second act in this drama of con¬ 
quest and re-conquest. Maud, deprived of her brother, 
was helpless. She exchanged him for King Stephen, 


112 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


and the war broke out afresh. Stephen laid siege to 
Oxford, and pressed it so closely that once more Maud 
took to flight. It was midwinter. The ground was 
covered with snow. Dressing herself from head to 
foot in white, and accompanied by three knights 
similarly attired, she slipped out of a postern in the 
hope of being unseen against the whiteness of the 
snow-clad surface. 

Stephen’s camp was asleep, its sentinels alone being 
astir. The scared fugitives glided on foot through 
the snow, passing close to the enemy’s posts, the 
voices of the sentinels sounding in their ears. On 
foot they crossed the frozen Thames, gained horses 
on the opposite side, and galloped away in hasty 
flight. 

There is little more to say. Maud’s cause was at 
an end. Hot long afterwards her brother died, and 
she withdrew to Hormandy, glad, doubtless, to be 
well out of that pestiferous island, but, mayhap, 
mourning that her arrogant folly had robbed her of 
a throne. 

A few years afterwards her son Henry took up 
her cause, fought with Stephen, and at length ended 
the war by.a truce, which provided that Henry 
should reign after Stephen’s death. Stephen died a 
year afterwards, England gained an able monarch, 
and prosperity returned to the realm after fifteen 
years of the most frightful misery and misrule. 


ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT 
OF THE RUEFUL COUNTE¬ 
NANCE. 


“"Where will the old duke live?” asks Oliver, in 
Shakespeare’s “ As you like it.” 

“ They say he is already in the forest of Arden,” 
answers Charles, “ and a many merry men with him; 
and there they live like the old Eobin Hood of 
England, and fleet the time carelessly as they did in 
the golden world.” 

Many a merry man, indeed, was there with Eobin 
Hood in Sherwood forest, and, if we may believe the 
stories that live in the heart of English song, there 
they fleeted the time as carelessly as men did in the 
golden age ; for Eobin was king of the merry green¬ 
wood, as the Norman kings were lords of the realm 
beside, and though his state was not so great nor his 
coffers so full, his heart was merrier and his con¬ 
science more void of offence against man and God. 
If Eobin lived by plunder, so did the king; the one 
took toll from a few travellers, the other from a 
kingdom; the one dealt hard blows in self-defence, 
the other killed thousands in war for self-aggrandize* 
ment ) the one was a patriot, the other an invader. 
Yerily Eobin was far the honester man of the two, 
and most worthy the admiration of mankind, 
ii.—A 10* 113 


114 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Nor was the kingdom of Bobin Hood so much less 
extensive than that of England’s king as men may 
deem, though its tenants were fewer and its revenues 
less. For in those days forest land spread widely 
over the English isle. The Norman kings had 
driven out the old inhabitants far and wide, and 
planted forests in place of towns, peopling them with 
deer in place of men. In its way this was merciful, 
perhaps. Those rude old kings were not content 
unless they were hunting and killing, and it was 
better they should kill deer than men. But their 
cruel game-laws could not keep men from the forests, 
and the woods they planted served as places of shelter 
for the outlaws they made. 

William the Conqueror, so we are told, had no less 
than sixty-eight forests, peopled with deer, and 
guarded against intrusion of common man by a cruel 
interdict. His successors added new forests, until it 
looked as if England might be made all woodland, 
and the red deer its chief inhabitants. Sherwood 
forest, the favorite lurking-place of the bold Bobin, 
stretched for thirty miles in an unbroken line. But 
this was only part of Bobin’s “realm of plesaunce.” 
From Sherwood it was but a step to other forests, 
stretching league after league, and peopled by bands 
of merry rovers, who laughed at the king’s laws, killed 
and ate his cherished deer at their own sweet wills, 
and defied sheriff and man-at-arms, the dense forest 
depths affording them innumerable lurking-places, 
their skill with the bow enabling them to defend 
their domain from assault, and to exact tribute from 
their foes. 


ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGIIT. 


115 


Such was the realm of Eobin Hood, a realm of 
giant oaks and silvery birches, a realm prodigal of 
trees, o’ercanopied with green leaves until the sun 
had ado to send his rays downward, carpeted with 
brown moss and emerald grasses, thicketed with a 
rich undergrowth of bryony and clematis, prickly 
holly and golden furze, and a host of minor shrubs, 
while some parts of the forest were so dense that, as 
Camden says, the entangled branches of the thickly- 
set trees “ were so twisted together, that they hardly 
left room for a person to pass.” 

Here were innumerable hiding-places for the for¬ 
est outlaws when hunted too closely by their foes. 
They lacked not food; the forest was filled with 
grazing deer and antlered stags. There was also 
abundance of smaller game,—the hare, the coney, 
the roe; and of birds,—the partridge, pheasant, 
woodcock, mallard, and heron. Fuel could be had 
in profusion when fire was needed. For winter shel¬ 
ter there were many caverns, for Sherwood forest 
is remarkable for its number of such places of 
refuge, some made by nature, others excavated by 
man. 

Happy must have been the life in this greenwood 
realm, jolly the outlaws who danced and sang 
beneath its shades, merry as the day was long their 
hearts while summer ruled the year, while even in 
drear winter they had their caverns of refuge, their 
roaring wood-fires, and the spoils of the year’s forays 
to carry them through the season of cold and storm. 
A follower of bold Eobin might truly sing, with 
Shakespeare,— 


116 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


il Under the greenwood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither: 

Here shall he see 
No enemy, 

But winter and rough weather.” 

But the life of the forest-dwellers was not spent 
solely in enjoyment of the pleasures of the merry 
greenwood. They were hunted by men, and became 
hunters of men. True English hearts theirs, all 
Englishmen their friends, all Normans their foes, they 
were in no sense brigands, but defenders of their 
soil against the foreign foe who had overrun it, the 
successors of Hereward the Wake, the last of the 
English to bear arms against the invader, and to 
keep a shelter in which the English heart might 
still beat in freedom. 

No wonder the oppressed peasants and serfs of the 
fields sang in gleeful strains the deeds of the forest- 
dwellers ; no wonder that Bobin Hood became the 
hero of the people, and that the homely song of the 
land was full of stories of his deeds. We can scarcely 
call these historic tales: they are legendary, tradi¬ 
tional; yet it may well be that a stratum of fact 
underlies the aftergrowth of romance; certainly 
they were history to the people, and as such, with a 
mental reservation, they shall be history to us. We 
propose, therefore, here to convert into prose “a 
lytell geste of Robyn Hode.” 

It was a day in merry spring-tide. Under the 


ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT. 117 

Bun-sprinkled shadows of the “woody and famous 
forest of Barnsdale” (adjoining Sherwood) stood 
gathered a group of men attired in Lincoln green, 
bearing long bows in their hands and quivers of 
sharp-pointed arrows upon their shoulders, hardy 
men all, strong of limb and bold of face. 

Leaning against an oak of centuried growth stood 
Eobin Hood, the famous outlaw chief, a strong man 
and sturdy, with handsome face and merry blue 
eyes, one fitted to dance cheerily in days of festival, 
and to strike valiantly in hours of conflict. Beside 
him stood the tall and stalwart form of Little John, 
whose name was given him in jest, for he was the 
stoutest of the band. There also were valiant Much, 
the miller’s son, gallant Scathelock, George a Green, 
the pindar of Wakefield, the fat and jolly Friar Tuck, 
and many another woodsman of renown, a band of 
lusty archers such as all England could not elsewhere 
match. 

“ Faith o’ my body, the hours pass apace,” quoth 
Little John, looking upward through the trees. “ Is 
it not time we should dine ?” 

“ I am not in the mood to dine without company,” 
said Eobin. “ Our table is a dull one without guests. 
If we had now some bold baron or fat abbot, or even 
a knight or squire, to help us carve our haunch of 
venison, and to pay his scot for the feast, I wot mo 
all our appetites would be better.” 

He laughed meaningly as he looked round the 
circle of faces. 

“ Marry, if such be your whim,” answered Littlo 
John, “ tell us whither we shall go to find a guest fit 


118 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


to grace our greenwood table, and of what rank he 
shall be.” 

“ At least let him not be farmer or yeoman,” said 
Robin. “We war on hawks, not on doves. If you 
can bring me a bishop now, or, i’ faith, the high- 
sheriff of Nottingham, we shall dine merrily. Take 
Much and Scathelock with you, and away. Bring 
me earl or baron, abbot or simple knight, or squire, 
if no better can be had ; the fatter their purses the 
better shall be their welcome.” 

Taking their bows, the three yeomen strode at a 
brisk pace through the forest, bent upon other game 
than deer or antlered stag. On reaching the forest 
edge near Barnsdale, they lurked in the bushy 
shadows and kept close watch and ward upon the 
highway that there skirted the wood, in hope of 
finding a rich relish to Robin’s meal. 

Propitious fortune seemed to aid their quest. 
Not long had they bided in ambush when, afar on 
the road, they spied a knight riding towards them. 
He came alone, without squire or follower, and 
promised to be an easy prey to the trio of stout 
woodsmen. But as he came near they saw that 
something was amiss with him. He rode with one 
foot in the stirrup, the other hanging loose; a sim¬ 
ple hood covered his head, and hung negligently 
down over his eyes; grief or despair filled his vis¬ 
age, “a soryer man than he rode never in somer’s 
day.” 

Little John stepped into the road, courteously bent 
his knee to the stranger, and bade him welcome to 
the greenwood. 


ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIQIIT. 


119 


“Welcome be you, gentle knight,” he said; “my 
master has awaited you fasting, these three hours” 

“Your master—who is he?” asked the knight, 
lifting his sad eyes. 

“Robin Hood, the forest chief,” answered Little 
John. 

“ And a lusty yeoman he,” said the knight. “ Men 
say much good of him. I thought to dine to-day at 
Blythe or Dankaster, but if jolly Robin wants me I 
am his man. It matters little, save that I have no 
heart to do justice to any man’s good cheer. Lead 
on, my courteous friend. The greenwood, then, shall 
be my dining-hall.” 

Our scene now changes to the lodge of the wood¬ 
land chief. An hour had passed. A merry scene 
met the eye. The long table was well covered with 
game of the choicest, swan, pheasants, and river 
fowl, and with roasts and steaks of venison, which 
had been on hoof not many hours before. Around 
it sat a jolly company of foresters, green-clad like 
the trees about them. At its head sat Robin Hood, 
his handsome face lending encouragement to the 
laughter and gleeful chat of his men. Beside him 
sat the knight, sober of attire, gloomy of face, yet 
brightening under the courteous treatment of his 
host and the gay sallies of the outlaw band. 

“ Gramercy, Sir Woodman,” said the knight, when 
the feast was at an end, “ such a dinner as you have 
set me I have not tasted for weeks. When I come 
again to this country I hope to repay you with as 
good a one.” 

“ A truce to your dinner,” said Robin, curtly. “ All 


120 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


that dine in our woodland inn pay on the spot, Sir 
Knight. It is a good rule, I wot.” 

“ To full hands, mayhap,” said the knight; “ but 
I dare not, for very shame, proffer you what is in my 
coffers.” 

“ Is it so little, then ?” 

“Ten shillings is not wealth,” said the knight. 

“ I can offer you no more.” 

“ Faith, if that be all, keep it, in God’s name; and 
I’ll lend you more, if you be in need. Go look, Little 
John; we take no stranger’s word in the greenwood.” 

John examined the knight’s effects, and reported 
that he had told the truth. Kobin gazed curiously 
at his guest. 

“ I held you for a knight of high estate,” he said. 
“A heedless husbandman you must have been, a 
gambler or wassailer, to have brought yourself to 
this sorry pass. An empty pocket and threadbare 
attire ill befit a knight of your parts.” 

“You wrong me, Kobin,” said the knight, sadly. 
“Misfortune, not sin, has beggared me. I have 
nothing left but my children and my wife; but it is 
through no deed of my own. My son—my heir he 
should have been—slew a knight of Lancashire and 
his squire. To save him from the law I have made 
myself a beggar. Even my lands and house must 
go, for I have pledged them to the abbot of St. Mary 
as surety for four hundred pounds loaned me. I 
cannot pay him, and the time is near its end. I 
have lost hope, good sir, and am on my way to the' 
sea, to take ship for the Holy Land. Pardon my 
tears, I leave a wife and children.” 


ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT 


121 


“ Where are your friends ?” asked Bobm. 

“ Where are the last year’s leaves of your trees ?” 
asked the knight. “ They were fair enough while 
the summer sun shone; they dropped from me when 
the winter of trouble came.” 

“ Can you not borrow the sum ?” asked Bobin. 

“ Not a groat,” answered the knight. “ I have no 
more credit than a beggar.” 

“ Mayhap not with the usurers,” said Bobin. “ But 
the greenwood is not quite bare, and your face, Sir 
Knight, is your pledge of faith. Go to my treasury, 
Little John, and see if it will not yield four hundred 
pounds.” 

“ I can promise you that, and more if need be,” 
answered the woodman. “ But our worthy knight 
is poorly clad, and we have rich cloths to spare, I 
wot. Shall we not add a livery to his purse ?” 

“ As you will, good fellow, and forget not a horse, 
for our guest’s mount is of the sorriest.” 

The knight’s sorrow gave way to hope as he saw 
the eagerness of the generous woodmen. Little 
John’s count of the money added ample interest; 
the cloths were measured with a bow-stick for a 
yard, and a palfrey was added to the courser, to 
bear their welcome gifts. In the end Bobin lent 
him Little John for a squire, and gave him twelve 
months in which to repay his loan. Away he went, 
no longer a knight of rueful countenance. 

“ Bo we as the knight went on his way, 

This game he thought full good, 

When he looked on Bernysdale 
He blyssed Robin Hode ; 

11 


122 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


“ And when he thought on Bernysdale, 

On Scatheleck, Much, and John, 

He blyssed them for the best company 
That ever he in come.” 

The next day was that fixed for the payment of 
the loan to the abbot of St. Mary’s. Abbot and 
prior waited in hope and excitement. If the cash 
was not paid by night a rich estate would fall into 
their hands. Mercy was out of their thoughts 
The knight must pay to the last farthing, or be beg¬ 
gared. A “ fat-headed monk,” the cellarer, burst in 
upon them, full of exultation. 

“He is dead or hanged!” he cried. “We shall 
have our four hundred pounds many times over.” 

With these worthies was the high-justice of Eng¬ 
land and the sheriff of the shire, brought there to 
give a show of law to the abbot’s greed. Time was 
passing, an hour or two more would end the knight’s 
grace, only a narrow space of time lay between him 
and beggary. The justice had just turned with 
congratulations to the abbot, when, to the alarm of 
these lucre-loving churchmen, the debtor, Sir Bich¬ 
ard of the Lee, appeared at the gate of the abbey, 
and made his way into the hall. 

Yet he was shabbily clad ; his face was sombre; 
there seemed little occasion for alarm. There seemed 
none when he began to speak. 

“ Sir Abbot,” he said, “ I come to hold my day.” 

“ Hast thou brought my pay ?” asked the abbot. 

“Hot one penny,” answered the knight. 

“ Thou art a shrewd debtor,” declared the abbot, 
with a look of delight. “Sir Justice, drink to me. 


ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT. 


123 


What brings you here then, sirrah, if you fetch no 
money ?” 

“ To pray your grace for a longer day,” said Sir 
Bichard, humbly. 

“ Your day is ended; not an hour more do you 
get,” cried the abbot. 

Sir Bichard now appealed to the justice for relief, 
and after him to the sheriff, but to both in vain. 
Then, turning to the abbot again, he offered to be 
his servant, and work for him till the four hundred 
pounds were earned, if he would take pity on him. 

This appeal was lost on the greedy churchman. 
In the end hot words passed, and the abbot angrily 
exclaimed,— 

“ Out of my hall, thou false knight! Speed thee 
out, sirrah!” 

“ Abbot, thou liest, I was never false to my word,” 
said Sir Bichard, proudly, “ You lack courtesy, to 
suffer a knight to kneel and beg so long. I am a 
true knight and a true man, as all who have seen me 
in tournament or battle will say.” 

“ What more will you give the knight for a full 
release?” asked the justice. “If you give nothing, 
you will never hold his lands in peace.” 

“ A hundred pounds,” said the abbot. 

“ Give him two,” said the justice. 

“ Not so,” cried the knight. “ If you make it a 
thousand more, not a foot of my land shall you ever 
hold. You have outwitted yourself, master abbot, 
by your greed.” 

Sir Bichard’s humility was gone; his voice was 
clear and proud; the churchmen trembled, here was 


124 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


a new tone. Turning to a table, the knight took a 
bag from under his cloak, and shook out of it on to 
the hoard a ringing heap of gold. 

“Here is the gold you lent me, Sir Abbot,” he cried. 
* Count it. You will find it four hundred pounds to 
the penny. Had you been courteous, I would have 
been generous. As it is, I pay not a penny over my 
due.” 

“ The abbot sat styll, and ete no more 
For all his ryall chere ; 

He cast his head on his sholder, 

And fast began to stare.” 

So ended this affair, the abbot in despair, the 
knight in triumph, the justice laughing at his late 
friends and curtly refusing to return the bribe they 
had paid to bring him there. His money counted, 
his release signed, the knight was a glad man again. 

“ The knight stert out of the dore, 

Awaye was all his care, 

And on he put his good clothynge, 

The other he lefte there. 

“ He wente hym forthe full mery syngynge, 

As men have tolde in tale, 

His lady met hym at the gate, 

At home in Wierj^sdale. 

“ 1 Welcome, my lorde,’ sayd his lady; 

‘ Syr, lost is all your good ?’ 

* Be mery, dame,’ said the knight, 

‘ And pray for Robyn Hode, 

* * That ever his soule be in blysse, 

He holpe me out of my tene; 

Ne had not be his kyndenesse, 

Beggers had we ben.’ ” 


ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT. 125 

The story wanders on, through pages of verse 
like the above, but we may fitly end it with a page 
of prose. The old singers are somewhat prolix; it 
behooves us to be brief. 

A twelvemonth passed. The day fixed by the 
knight to repay his friend of the merry greenwood 
came. On that day the highway skirting the forest 
was made brilliant by a grand array of ecclesiastics 
and their retainers, at their head no less a personage 
than the fat-headed cellarer of St. Mary’s. 

Unluckily for them, the outlaws were out that day, 
on the lookout for game of this fat breed, and the 
whole pious procession was swept up and taken to 
Robin Hood’s greenwood court. The merry fellow 
looked at his new guests with a smile. The knight 
had given the Yirgin as his security,—surely the 
Virgin had taken him at his word, and sent these 
holy men to repay her debt. 

In vain the high cellarer denied that he repre¬ 
sented any such exalted personage. He even lied as 
to the state of his coffers. It was a lie wasted, for 
Little John served him as he had the knight, and 
found a good eight hundred pounds in the monk’s 
baggage. 

“Fill him with wine of the best!” cried Robin. 
“ Our Lady is a generous debtor. She pays double. 
Fill him with wine and let him go. He has paid 
well for his dinner.” 

Hardly had the monk and his train gone, in dole 
and grief, before another and merrier train was seen 
winding under the great oaks of the forest. It was 
the knight on his way to pay his debt. After him 

11 * 


126 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


rode a hundred men clad in white and red, and bear¬ 
ing as a present to the delighted foresters a hun¬ 
dred bows of the finest quality, each with its sheaf 
of arrows, with burnished points, peacock feathers, 
and notched with silver. Each shaft was an ell long. 

The knight begged pardon. He had been delayed. 
On his way he had met a poor yeoman who was 
being ill-treated. ITe had stayed to rescue him. 
The sun was down; the hour passed; but he boro 
his full due to the generous lords of the greenwood. 

“You come too late,” said Robin. “The Yirgin, 
your surety, has been before you and paid your 
debt. The holy monks of St. Mary, her almoners, 
have brought it. They paid well, indeed; they paid 
double. Four hundred is my due, the other four 
hundred is yours. Take it, my good friend, our 
Lady sends it, and dwell henceforth in a state be¬ 
fitting your knightly station.” 

Once more the good knight, Sir Richard of the 
Lee, dined with Robin Hood, and merry went the 
feast that day under the greenwood tree. The leaves 
of Sherwood still laugh with the mirth that then 
shook their bowery arches. Robin Hood dwells 
there no more, but the memory of the mighty archer 
and his merry men still haunts the woodland glades, 
and will while a lover of romance dwells in Eng¬ 
land’s island realm. 


WALLACE, THE HERO OF 
SCO TLAND. 


On a summer’s day, many centuries ago, a young 
gentleman of Scotland was fishing in the river Ir¬ 
vine, near Ayr, attended by a boy who carried his 
fishing-basket. The young man was handsome of 
face, tall of figure, and strongly built, while his skill 
as an angler was attested by the number of trout 
which lay in the boy’s basket. While he was thus 
engaged several English soldiers, from the garrison 
of Ayr, came up to the angler, and with the inso¬ 
lence with which these invaders were then in the 
habit of treating the Scotch, insisted on taking the 
basket and its contents from the boy. 

“ You ask too much,” said Wallace, quietly. “ You 
are welcome to a part of the fish, but you cannot 
have them all.” 

“ That we will,” answered the soldiers. 

“ That you will not,” retorted the youth. “ I have 
other business than to play fisherman for your bene¬ 
fit.” 

The soldiers insisted, and attempted to take the 
basket. The angler came to the aid of his attend¬ 
ant. Words were followed by blows. The soldiers 
laid hands on their weapons. The youth had no 

127 


128 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


weapon but his fishing-rod. But with the butt end 
of this he struck the foremost Englishman so hard 
a blow under his ear that he stretched him dead 
upon the ground. Seizing the man’s sword, which 
had fallen from his hand, he attacked the others 
with such skill and fury that they were put to flight, 
and the bold angler was enabled to take his fish 
safely home. 

The name of the courageous youth was "William 
Wallace. He was the son of a private gentleman, 
called Wallace of Ellerslie, who had brought up his 
boy to the handling of warlike weapons, until he had 
grown an adept in their use; and also to a hatred of 
the English, which was redoubled by the insolence 
of the soldiers with whom Edward I. of England 
had garrisoned the country. Like all high-spirited 
Scotchmen, the young man viewed with indignation 
the conduct of the conquerors of his country, and 
expressed the intensity of his feeling in the tragical 
manner above described. 

Wallace’s life was in imminent danger from his 
exploit. The affair was reported to the English 
governor of Ayr, who sought him diligently, and 
would have put him to death had he been captured. 
But he took to the hills and woods, and lay concealed 
in their recesses until the deed was forgotten, being 
supplied by his friends with the necessaries of life. 
As it was not safe to return to Ayr after his period 
of seclusion, he made his way to another part of the 
country, where his bitter hostility to the English 
soon led him into other encounters with them, in 
which his strength, skill, and courage usually brought 


WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND. 129 

him off victorious. So many were the affairs in 
which he was engaged, and so great his daring and 
success, that the people began to talk of him as the 
champion of Scotland, while the English grew to 
fear this indomitable young swordsman. 

At length came an adventure which brought mat¬ 
ters to a crisis. Young Wallace had married a lady 
of Lanark, and had taken up his residence in that 
town with his wife. The place had an English gar 
rison, and one day, as Wallace walked in the market¬ 
place in a rich green dress, with a handsome dagger 
by his side, an Englishman accosted him insultingly, 
saying that no Scotchman had the right to wear 
such finery or to carry so showy a weapon. 

He had tried his insolence on the wrong man. A 
quarrel quickly followed, and, as on similar occasions 
before, Wallace killed the Englishman. It was an 
unwise act, inspired by his hasty temper and fiery 
indignation. His peril was great. He hastened to 
his house, which was quickly attacked by soldiers of 
the garrison. While they were seeking to break in 
at the front, Wallace escaj>ed at the rear, and made 
his way to a rocky glen, called the Cortland-crags, 
near the town, where he found a secure hiding-place 
among its thick-growing trees and bushes. 

Meanwhile, the governor of Lanark, Hazelrigg by 
name, finding that the culprit had escaped, set fire 
to his house, and with uncalled-for cruelty put his 
wife and servants to death. He also proclaimed 
Wallace an outlaw, and offered a reward for any one 
who should bring him in, dead or alive. He and 
many of his countrymen were destined to pay the 


130 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


penalty of this cruel deed before Wallace should fall 
into English hands. 

The murder of his wife set fire to the intense pa¬ 
triotism in Wallace’s soul. He determined to devote 
his life to acts of reprisal against the enemy, and if 
possible to rescue his country from English hands. 
He soon had under bis command a body of daring 
partisans, some of them outlaws like himself, others 
quite williug to become such for the good of Scotland. 
The hills and forests of the country afforded them 
numerous secure hiding-places, whence they could 
issue in raids upon the insolent foe. 

From that time forward Wallace gave the Eng¬ 
lish no end of trouble. One of his first expeditions 
was against Hazelrigg, to whom he owed so bitter 
a debt of vengeance. The cruel governor was killed, 
and the murdered woman avenged. Other expedi¬ 
tions were attempted, and collisions with the soldiers 
sent against him became so frequent and the par¬ 
tisan band so successful, that Wallace quickly grew 
famous, and the number of his followers rapidly 
increased. In time, from being a band of outlaws, 
his party grew to the dimensions of a small army, 
and in place of contenting himself with local repri¬ 
sals on the English, he cherished the design of 
striking for the independence of his country. 

The most notable adventure which followed this 
increase of Wallace’s band is one the story of which 
may be in part legendary, but which is significant of 
the cruelty of warfare in those thirteenth-century 
days. It is remembered among the Scottish people 
under the name of the “ Barns of Ayr.” 


WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND. 131 

The English governor of Ayr is said to have sent a 
general invitation to the nobility and gentry of that 
section of Scotland to meet him in friendly confer¬ 
ence on national affairs. The place fixed for the meet¬ 
ing was in certain large buildings called the barns of 
Ayr. The true purpose of the governor was a mur¬ 
derous one. He proposed to rid himself of many of 
those who were giving him trouble by the effective 
method of the rope. Halters with running nooses 
had been prepared, and hung upon the beams which 
supported the roof. The Scotch visitors were ad¬ 
mitted two at a time, and as they entered the nooses 
were thrown over their heads, and they drawn up 
and hanged. Among those thus slain was Sir Kegi- 
nald Crawford, sheriff of the county of Ayr, and 
uncle to William Wallace. 

This story it is not easy to believe, in the exact 
shape in which it is given, since it is unlikely that the 
Scottish nobles were such fools as it presupposes j but 
that it is founded on some tragical fact is highly prob¬ 
able. The same is the case with the story of Wal¬ 
lace’s retribution for this crime. When the news of 
it came to his ears he is said to have been greatly 
incensed, and to have determined on an adequate 
revenge. He collected his men in a wood near Ayr, 
and sent out spies to learn the state of affairs. The 
English had followed their crime with a period of 
carousing, and, having eaten and drunk all they 
wished, had lain down to sleep in the barns in which 
the Scotch gentry had been murdered. Hot dream¬ 
ing that a foe was so near, they had set no guards, 
and thus left themselves open to the work of revenge. 


132 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


This news being brought to Wallace, he directed a 
woman, who was familiar with the locality, to mark 
with chalk the doors of the buildings where the Eng¬ 
lishmen lay. Then, slipping up to the borders of Ayr, 
he sent a party with ropes, bidding them to fasten 
securely all the marked doors. This done, others 
heaped straw on the outside of the buildings and set 
it on fire. The buildings, being constructed of wood, 
were quickly in a flame, the English waking from 
their drunken slumbers to find themselves environed 
with fire. 

Their fate was decided. Every entrance to the 
buildings had been secured. Such as did succeed in 
getting out were driven back into the flames, or 
killed on the spot. The whole party perished miser¬ 
ably, not one escaping. In addition to the English 
thus disposed of, there were a number lodged in a 
convent. These were attacked by the prior and 
the monks, who had armed themselves with swords, 
and fiercely assailed their guests, few of whom es¬ 
caped. The latter event is known as “ The Friar of 
Ayr’s Blessing.” 

Such is the story of a crime and its retribution. 
To say that it is legendary is equivalent to saying 
that it is not true in all its particulars; but that it 
is founded on fact its common acceptance by the 
people of that country seems evidence. 

So far the acts of Wallace and his men had been 
of minor importance. But now his party of followers 
grew into an army, many of the Scottish nobles 
joining him. Prominent among these was Sir 
William Douglas, the head of the most famous family 



THE WALLACE MONUMENT, STIRLING 



















WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND. 133 

in Scottish history. Another was Sir John Grahame, 
who became the chief friend and confidant of the 
champion of the rights of Scotland. 

This rebellious activity on the part of the Scotch 
had not been viewed with indifference by the English. 
The raids of Wallace and his band of outlaws they 
had left the local garrisons to deal with. But here 
was an army, suddenly sprung into existence, and 
needing to be handled in a different manner. An 
English army, under the command of John do War- 
enne, the Earl of Surrey, marched towards Wallace’s 
camp, with the purpose of putting a summary end 
to this incipient effort at independence. 

The approach of Warenne weakened Wallace’s 
army, since many of the nobles deserted his ranks, 
under the fear that he could not withstand the 
greatly superior English force. Yet, in spite of 
these defections, he held his ground. He still had a 
considerable force under his command, and took posi¬ 
tion near the town of Stirling, on the north side of 
the river Force, where he awaited the approaching 
English army. The river was at this point crossed 
by a long wooden bridge. 

The English host reached the southern bank of 
the river. Its commander, thinking that he might 
end the matter in a peaceful way, sent two clergy¬ 
men to Wallace, offering a pardon to him and his 
followers if they would lay down their arms. 

“ Go back to Warenne,” was the reply of Wallace, 
“ and tell him we value not the pardon of the king 
of England. We are not here for the purpose of 
treating of peace, but of abiding battle, and re« 

12 


134 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


storing freedom to onr country. Let the English 
come on; we defy them to their very beards!” 

Despite the disparity in numbers, Wallace had 
some warrant for his tone of confidence. The Eng¬ 
lish could not reach him except over the long and 
narrow bridge, and stood the chance of having their 
vanguard destroyed before the remainder could come 
to their aid. 

Such proved to be the case. The English, after 
some hesitation, attempted the passage of the bridge. 
Wallace held otf until about half the army had crossed 
and the bridge was thickly crowded with others. 
Then he charged upon them with his whole force, 
and with such impetuosity that they were thrown 
into confusion, and soon put to rout, a large number 
being slain and the remainder driven into the Forth, 
where the greater part of them were drowned. The 
portion of the English army which had not crossed 
became infected with the panic of their fellows, and 
fled in all haste, first setting fire to the bridge to 
prevent pursuit. 

This signal victory had the most encouraging in¬ 
fluence on the people of Scotland. The defeated 
army fled in all haste from the country, and those of 
the Scotch who had hitherto remained in doubt now 
took arms, and assailed the castles still held by tho 
English. Many of these were taken, and numerous 
gallant deeds done, of which Wallace is credited 
with his full share. How much exaggeration there 
may bo in the stories told it is not easy to say, but 
it seems certain that the English suffered several 
defeats, lost most of tho towns and castles they had 


WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND. 135 

held, and were driven almost entirely from the coun¬ 
try. Wallace, indeed, led his army into England, 
and laid waste Cumberland and Northumberland, 
where many cruelties were committed, the Scottish 
soldiers being irrepressible in their thirst for revenge 
on those who had so long oppressed their country. 

While these events were going on Edward I. was 
in Flanders. He had deemed Scotland thoroughly 
subjugated, and learned with surprise and fury that 
the Scotch had risen against him, defeated his armies, 
set free their country, and even invaded England. 
He hurried back from Flanders in a rage, determined 
to bring this rebellion to a short and decisive ter¬ 
mination. 

Collecting a large army, Edward invaded Scotland. 
His opponent, meanwhile, had been made protector, 
or governor, of Scotland, with the title of Sir Wil¬ 
liam Wallace. Yet he had risen so rapidly from a 
private station to this great position that there was 
much jealousy of him on the part of the great nobles, 
and their lack of support of the best soldier and 
bravest man of their nation was the main cause of 
his downfall and the subsequent disasters to their 
country. 

Wallace, despite their defection, had assembled a 
considerable army. But it was not so strong as that 
of Edward, who had, besides, a large body of the 
celebrated archers of England, each of whom car 
ried, so it was claimed, twelve Scotchmen’s lives in 
his girdle,—in his twelve cloth-yard arrows. 

The two armies met at Falkirk. Wallace, before 
the fighting began, addressed his men in a pithy 


136 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


sentence: “ I have brought you to the ring, let mo 
see how you can dance.” The battle opened with a 
charge of the English cavalry on the dense ranks of 
the Scottish infantry, who were armed with long 
spears which they held so closely together that their 
line seemed impregnable. The English horsemen 
found it so. They attempted again and again to 
break through that “ wood of spears,” as it has been 
called, but were every time beaten off with loss. 
But the Scotch horse failed to support their brave 
footmen. On the contrary, they fled from the field, 
through ill-will or treachery of the nobles, as is 
supposed. 

Edward now ordered his archers to advance. They 
did so, and poured their arrows upon the Scottish 
ranks in such close and deadly volleys that flesh and 
blood could not endure it. Wallace had also a body of 
archers, from Ettrick forest, but they were attacked 
in their advance and many of them slain. The Eng¬ 
lish cavalry now again charged. They met with a 
different reception from their previous one. The 
storm of arrows had thrown Wallace’s infantry into 
confusion, the line was broken at several points, and 
the horsemen charged into their midst, cutting them 
down in great numbers. Sir John Grahame and 
others of their leaders were slain, and the Scotch, 
their firm ranks broken and many of them slain, at 
length took to flight. 

It was on the 22d of July, 1298, that this decisive 
battle took place. Its event put an end, for the time, 
to the hopes of Scottish independence. Opposition 
to Edward’s army continued, and some successes 


WALLACE, TETE HERO OF SCOTLAND. 137 

were gained, but the army of invasion was abun¬ 
dantly reinforced, until in the end Wallace alone, at 
the head of a small band of followers, remained in 
arms. 

After all others had yielded, he persistently re¬ 
fused to submit to Edward and his armies. As he 
had been the first to take arms, he was the last to 
keep the field, and for some years he continued to 
maintain himself among the woods and hills of the 
Highlands, holding his own for more than a year 
after all the other chiefs had surrendered. 

Edward was determined not to leave him at liberty. 
He feared the influence of this one man more than of 
all the nobles of Scotland, and pursued him unremit¬ 
tingly, a great price being offered for his head. At 
length the gallant champion was captured, a Scotch¬ 
man, Sir John Menteith, earning obloquy by the act. 
The story goes that the capture was made at Rob- 
royston, near Glasgow, the fugitive champion being 
taken by treachery, the signal for rushing upon him 
and taking him unawares being for one of the com¬ 
pany to turn a loaf, which lay upon the table, with 
its bottom side uppermost. In after-days it was 
considered very ill-breeding for any one to turn a 
loaf in this manner, if a person named Menteith 
were at table. 

However this be, it is certain that Wallace was 
taken and delivered to his great enemy, and no less 
certain that he was treated with barbarous harsh¬ 
ness. He was placed on trial at Westminster Hall, 
on the charge of being a traitor to the English crown, 
and Edward, to insult him, had him crowned with a 

12 * 


138 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


green garland, as one who had been king of outlaws 
and robbers in the Scottish woods. 

“I could not be a traitor to Edward, for I was 
never his subject,” was the chieftain’s answer to tho 
charge against him. 

He was then accused of taking many towns and 
castles, killing many men, and doing much violence. 

“ It is true I have killed many Englishmen,” re 
plied Wallace, “ but it was because they came to 
oppress my native country. Far from repenting of 
this, I am only sorry not to have put to death many 
more of them.” 

Wallace’s defence was a sound one, but Edward 
had prejudged him. He was condemned and exe¬ 
cuted, his body being quartered, in the cruel fashion 
of that time, and the parts exposed on spikes on 
London bridge, as the limbs of a traitor. Thus died 
a hero, at the command of a tyrant. 


BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 


To Edward the Second, lying in luxurious idleness 
in his palace of pleasure at London, came the start¬ 
ling word that he must strike a blow or lose a kingdom. 
Scotland was slipping from his weak grasp. Of that 
great realm, won by the iron hand of his father, only 
one stronghold was left to England,—Stirling Castle, 
and that was fiercely besieged by Bobert Bruce and 
his patriot army. 

The tidings that came to Edward were these. Sir 
Philip Mowbray, governor of Stirling, hotly pressed 
by the Bruce, and seeing no hope of succor, had 
agreed to deliver the town and castle to the Scotch, 
unless relief reached him before midsummer. Bruce 
stopped not the messengers. He let them speed to 
London with the tidings, willing, doubtless, in his 
bold heart, to try it once for all with the English 
king, and win all or lose all at a blow. 

The news stirred feebly the weak heart of Edward, 
—lapped in delights, and heedless of kingdoms. It 
stirred strongly the vigorous hearts of the English 
nobility, men who had marched to victory under the 
banners of the iron Edward, and who burned with 
impatience at the inglorious ease of his silken son. 

The great deeds of Edward I. should not go for 

139 


140 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


naught, they declared. He had won Scotland; his 
eon should not lose it. The rebel Bruce had been 
left alone until he had gathered an army and nearly 
made Scotland his own. Only Stirling remained; it 
would be to the endless disgrace of England should 
it be abandoned, and the gallant Mowbray left with¬ 
out support. An army must be gathered, Bruce 
must be beaten, Scotland must be won. 

Like the cry of a pack of sleuth-hounds in the ear 
of the timid deer came these stern demands to Ed¬ 
ward the king. He dared not disregard them. It 
might be as much as his crown were worth. England 
meant business, and its king must take the lead or 
he might be asked to yield the throne. Stirred alike 
by pride and fear, he roused from his lethargy, gave 
orders that an army should be gathered, and vowed 
to drive the beleaguering Scots from before Stirling’s 
walls. 

From every side they came, the marching troops. 
England, hot with revengeful blood, mustered its 
quota in haste. Wales and Ireland, new appendages 
of the English throne, supplied their share. From 
the French provinces of the kingdom hosts of eager 
men-at-arms flocked across the Channel. All the 
great nobles and the barons of the realm led their 
followers, equipped for war, to the mustering-place, 
until a force of one hundred thousand men was ready 
for the field, perhaps the largest army which had 
ever marched under an English king. In this great 
array were thirty thousand horsemen. It looked as 
if Scotland were doomed. Surely that sterile land 
could raise no force to face this great array 1 


BRTTCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 


141 


King Bobert the Bruce did his utmost to prepare 
for the storm of war which threatened to break upon 
his realm. In all haste he summoned his barons and 
nobles from far and near. From the Highlands and 
the Lowlands they came, from island and mainland 
hocked the kilted and tartaned Scotch, but, when all 
were gathered, they numbered not a third the host 
of their foes, and were much more poorly armed. 
But at their head was the most expert military chief 
of that day, since the death of Edward I. the great¬ 
est warrior that Europe knew. Once again was it 
to be proved that the general is the soul of his army, 
and that skill and courage are a full offset for lack of 
numbers. 

Towards Stirling marched the great English array, 
confident in their numbers, proud of their gallant 
show. Northward they streamed, filling all the 
roads, the king at their head, deeming doubtless that 
he was on a holiday excursion, and that behind him 
came a wind of war that would blow the Scotch 
forces into the sea. Around Stirling gathered the 
army of the Bruce, marching in haste from hill and 
dale, coming in to the stirring peal of the pipes and 
the old martial airs of the land, until the plain around 
the beleaguered town seemed a living sea of men, and 
the sunlight burned on endless points of steel. 

But Bruce had no thought of awaiting the onset 
here. He well knew that he must supply by skill 
what he lacked in numbers. The English army was 
far superior to his, not only in men, but in its great 
host of cavalry, which alone equalled his entire force, 
and in its multitude of archers, the best bowmen 


142 


HISTORICAL TALER. 


in the world. What he lacked in men and arms he 
must make up in brains. With this in view, he led 
his army from before the town into a neighboring 
plain, called the Park, w T here nature had provided 
means of defence of which he might avail himself. 

The ground which his army here occupied was 
hard and dry. That in front of it, through which 
Edward’s host must pass, was wet and boggy, cut up 
with frequent watercourses, and ill-fitted for cavalry. 
Should the heavy armed horsemen succeed in crossing 
this marshy and broken ground and reach the firm 
soil in the Scottish front, they would find themselves 
in a worse strait still. For Bruce had his men dig 
a great number of holes as deep as a man’s knee. 
These were covered with light brush, and the turf 
spread evenly over them, so that the honeycombed 
soil looked to the eye like an unbroken field. Else¬ 
where on the plain he scattered calthrops—steel 
spikes—to lame the English horses. Smooth and 
promising looked the field, but the English cavalry 
were likely to find it a plain of pitfalls and steel 
points. 

While thus defending his front, Bruce had given 
as skilful heed to the defence of his flanks. On tho 
left his line reached to the walls of Stirling. On tho 
right it touched the banks of Bannockburn, a brook 
that ran between borders so rocky as to prevent 
attack from that quarter. Here, on the 23d of June, 
1314, was posted the Scottish army, awaiting tho 
coming of the foe, the camp-followers, cart-drivers, 
and other useless material of the army being sent 
back behind a hill,—afterwards known as the gillies’ 


BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 


143 


or servants’ hill,—that they might be out of the way. 
They were to play a part in the coming fray of which 
Bruce did not dream. 

Thus prepared, Bruce reviewed his force, and ad¬ 
dressed them in stirring words. The battle would 
be victory or death to him, he said. He hoped it 
would be to all. If any among them did not propose 
to fight to the bitter end and take victory or death, 
as God should decree, for his lot, now was the timo 
to withdraw; all such might leave the field before 
the battle began. Not a man left. 

Fearing that the English might try to throw a 
force into Stirling Castle, the king posted his nephew 
Bandolph with a body of men near St. Ninian’s 
church. Lord Douglas and Sir Bobert Keith were 
sent to survey and report upon the English force, 
which was marching from Falkirk. They returned 
with tidings to make any but stout hearts quiver. 
Such an army as was coming they had never seen 
before; it was a beautiful but a terrible sight, the 
approach of that mighty host. The whole country, 
as far as the eye could see, was crowded with men 
on horse or on foot. Never had they beheld such a 
grand display of standards, banners, and pennons. 
So gallant and fearful a show was it all, that the 
bravest host in Christendom might well tremble 
to see King Edward’s army marching upon them. 
Such was the story told by Douglas, though his was 
not the heart to tremble in the telling. 

Bruce was soon to see this great array of horse 
and foot for himself. On they came, filling the coun¬ 
try far and near with their numbers. But before 


144 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


they had come in view, another sight met the vigi 
lant eyes of the Scottish king. To the eastward there 
became visible a body of English horse, riding at 
speed, and seeking to reach Stirling from that quarter. 
Bruce turned to his nephew, who stood beside him. 

“ See, Bandolph,” he said, “ there is a rose fallen 
from your chaplet.” 

The English had passed the post which Bandolph 
had been set to guard. He heard the rebuke in 
silence, rode hastily to the head of his men, and 
rushed against the eight hundred English horse with 
half that number of footmen. The English turned 
to charge this daring force. Bandolph drew up his 
men in close order to receive them. It looked as 
if the Scotch would be overwhelmed, and trampled 
under foot by the powerful foe. 

“ Bandolph is lost!” cried Douglas. “ He must 
have help. Let me go to his aid.” 

“ Let Bandolph redeem his own fault,” answered 
the king, firmly. “ I cannot break the order of battle 
for his sake.” 

Douglas looked on, fuming with impatience. The 
danger seemed more imminent. The small body of 
Scotch foot almost vanished from sight in the cloud 
of English horsemen. The glittering lances appeared 
about to annihilate them. 

“ So please you,” said Douglas, “ my heart will not 
suffer me to stand idle and see Bandolph perish. I 
must go to his assistance.” 

The king made no answer. Douglas spurred to 
the head of his troop, and rode off at speed. He 
neared the scene of conflict. Suddenly a change 


BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 


145 


came. The horsemen appeared confused. Panic 
seemed to have stricken their ranks. In a moment 
away they went, in full flight, many of the horses 
with empty saddles, while the gallant group of Scotch 
stood unmoved. 

“Halt!” cried Douglas. “Randolph has gained 
the day. Since we are not soon enough to help him 
in the battle, do not let us lessen his glory by ap¬ 
proaching the field.” And the noble knight pulled 
rein and galloped back, unwilling to rob Randolph 
of any of the honor of his deed. 

The English vanguard was now in sight. From it 
rode out a number of knights, eager to see the Scotch 
array more nearly. King Robert did the same. He 
was in armor, but was poorly mounted, riding only 
a little pony, with which he moved up and down the 
front of his army, putting his men in order. A 
golden crown worn over his helmet was his sole 
mark of distinction. The only weapon he carried 
was a steel battle-axe. As the English knights came 
nearer, he advanced a little to have a closer look at 
them. 

Here seemed an opportunity for a quick and de¬ 
cisive blow. The Scottish king was at some distance 
in front of his men, his rank indicated by his crown, 
his horse a poor one, his hand empty of a spear. He 
might be ridden down by a sudden onset, victory to 
the English host be gained by a single blow, and 
great glory come to tUe bold knight that dealt it. 

So thought one of the English knights, Sir Henry 
de Bohun by name. Putting spurs to his power¬ 
ful war-horse, he galloped furiously upon the king, 
ii.— a k 13 


146 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


thinking to bear him easily to the ground. Bruce 
saw him coming, but made no movement of flight. 
He sat his pony warily, waiting the onset, until Bohun 
was nearly upon him with his spear. Then a quick 
touch to the rein, a sudden movement of the horse, 
and the lance-point sped past, missing its mark. 

The Scotch army stood in breathless alarm ; the 
English host in equally breathless expectation ; it 
seemed for the moment as if Robert the Bruce were 
lost. But as De Bohun passed him, borne onward 
by the career of his steed, King Robert rose in his 
stirrups, swung his battle-axe in the air, and brought 
it down on his adversary’s head with so terrible a 
blow that the iron helmet cracked as though it were 
a nutshell, and the knight fell from his horse, dead 
before he reached the ground. 

King Robert turned and rode back, where he was 
met by a storm of reproaches from his nobles, who 
declared that he had done grave wrong in exposing 
himself to such danger, when the safety of the army 
depended on him. The king heard their reproaches 
in silence, his eyes fixed on the fractured edge of his 
weapon. 

“ I have broken my good battle-axe,” was his only 
reply. 

This incident ended the day. Night was at hand. 
Both armies rested on the field. But at an early 
hour of the next day, the 24th of June, the battle 
began, one of the critical battles of history. 

Through the Scottish ranks walked barefooted the 
abbot of Inchaflray, exhorting the men to fight their 
best for freedom. The soldiers kneeled as he passed. 


BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 


147 


“ They kneel down!” cried King Edward, who 
saw this. “ They are asking forgiveness!” 

“ Yes,” said a baron beside him, “ but they ask it 
from God, not from us. These men will conquer, or 
die upon the field.” 

The battle began with a flight of English arrows. 
The archers, drawn up in close ranks, bent their bows, 
and poured their steel shafts as thickly as snow-flakes 
on the Scotch, many of whom were slain. Some¬ 
thing must be done, and that speedily, or those 
notable bowmen would end the battle of themselves. 
Flesh and blood could not long bear that rain of 
cloth-yard shafts, with their points of piercing steel. 

But Bruce had prepared for this danger. A body 
of well-mounted men-at-arms stood ready, and at the 
word of command rushed at full gallop upon the 
archers, cutting them down to right and left. Having 
no weapons but their bows and arrows, the archers 
broke and fled in utter confusion, hundreds of them 
being slain. 

This charge of the Scotch cavalry was followed 
by an advance in force of the English horsemen, 
who came forward in such close and serried ranks 
and with so vast an array that it looked as if they 
would overwhelm the narrow lines before them. 
But suddenly trouble came upon this mighty mass 
of knights and men-at-arms. The seemingly solid 
earth gave way under their horses’ feet, and down 
they went into the hidden pits, the horses hurled 
headlong, the riders flung helplessly upon the ground, 
from which the weight of their armor prevented their 


rising. 


148 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


In an instant the Scotch footmen were among them, 
killing the defenceless knights, cutting and slashing 
among the confused mass of horsemen, breaking 
their fine display into irretrievable disorder. Bruce 
brought up his men in crowding multitudes. Through 
the English ranks they glided, stabbing horses, slay¬ 
ing their iron-clad riders, doubly increasing the con¬ 
fusion of that wild whirl of horsemen, whose trim 
and gallant ranks had been thrown into utter dis¬ 
array. 

The English fought as they could, though at serious 
disadvantage. But their numbers were so great that 
they might have crushed the Scotch under their 
mere weight but for one of those strange chances on 
which the fate of so many battles have depended. 
As has been said, the Scottish camp-followers had 
been sent back behind a hill. But on seeing that 
their side seemed likely to win the day, this rabble 
came suddenly crowding over the hill, eager for a 
share in the spoil. 

It was a disorderly mob, but to the sorely-pressed 
English cavalry it seemed a new army which the 
Bruce had held in reserve. Suddenly stricken with 
panic, the horsemen turned and fled, each man for 
himself, as fast as their horses could carry them, the 
whole army breaking rank and rushing back in ter¬ 
ror over the ground which they had lately traversed 
in such splendor of appearance and confidence of soul. 

After them came the Scotch, cutting, slashing, 
killing, paving the earth with English slain. King 
Edward put spurs to his horse and fled in all haste 
from the fatal field. A gallant knight, Sir Giles de 


STIRLING CASTLE 


















































- 

































BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN. 149 

Argentine, who had won glory in Palestine, kept by 
him till he was out of the press. Then he drew 
rein. 

“ It is not my custom to fly,” he said. 

Turning his horse and shouting his war-cry of 
“ Argentine ! Argentine I” he rushed into the densest 
ranks of the Scotch, and was quickly killed. 

Many others of high rank fell, valiantly fighting, 
men who knew not the meaning of flight. But the 
bulk of the army was in hopeless panic, flying for 
life, red lines constantly falling before the crimsoned 
claymores of the Scotch, until the very streams ran 
red with blood. 

King Edward found war less than ever to his royal 
taste. He fled to Stirling Castle and begged admit¬ 
tance. 

“ I cannot grant it, my liege,” answered Mowbray. 
“My compact with the Bruce obliges me to sur¬ 
render the castle to-morrow. If you enter here it 
will be to become prisoner to the Scotch.” 

Edward turned and continued his flight, his route 
lying through the Torwood. After him came Lord 
Douglas, with a body of cavalry, pressing forward 
in hot haste. On his way he met a Scotch knight, 
Sir Lawrenee Abernethy, with twenty horsemen, 
riding to join Edward’s army. 

“ Edward’s army! He has no army,” cried Doug¬ 
las. “ The army is a rout. Edward himself is in 
flight. I am hot on his track.” 

“ I am with you, then,” cried Abernethy, changing 
sides on the instant, and joining in pursuit of the 
king whom he had just before been eager to serve. 

13 * 


150 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Away went the frightened king. On came the 
furious pursuers. Not a moment was given Edward 
to draw rein or alight. The chase was continued as 
far as Dunbar, whose governor, the earl of March, 
opened his gates to the flying king, and shut them 
against his foes. Giving the forlorn monarch a small 
fishing-vessel, he set him on the seas for England, 
a few distressed attendants alone remaining to him 
of the splendid army with which he had marched to 
the conquest of Scotland. 

Thus ended the battle which wrested Scotland 
from English hands, and made Robert Bruce king 
of the whole country. From the state of an exile, 
hunted with hounds, he had made himself a monarch, 
and one who soon gave the English no little trouble 
to protect their own borders. 


THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 


Terrible and long-enduring had been the siege 
of Calais. For a whole year it had continued, and 
still the sturdy citizens held the town. Outside was 
Edward III., with his English host, raging at the 
obstinacy of the French and at his own losses during 
the siege. Inside was John de Yienne, the unyield¬ 
ing governor, and his brave garrison. Outside was 
plenty; inside was famine; between were impreg¬ 
nable walls, which all the engines of Edward failed 
to reduce or surmount. No resource was left tho 
English king but time and famine; none was left 
the garrison but the hope of wearying their foes or 
of relief by their king. The chief foe they fought 
against was starvation, an enemy against whom war¬ 
like arms were of no avail, whom only stout hearts 
and inflexible endurance could meet; and bravely 
they faced this frightful foe, those stout citizens of 
Calais. 

An excellent harbor had Calais. It had long been 
the sheltering-place for the pirates that preyed on 
English commerce. But now no ship could leave or 
enter. The English fleet closed the passage by sea; 
the English army blocked all approach by land; tho 
French king, whose great army had just been mer- 

151 


152 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


cilessly slaughtered at Crecy, held aloof; nothing 
seemed to remain for Calais but death or surrender, 
and yet the valiant governor held out against his 
foes. 

As the days went on and no relief came he made 
a census of the town, selected seventeen hundred 
poor and unsoldierly folks, “ useless mouths,” as he 
called them, and drove them outside the walls. 
Happily for them, King Edward was just then in a 
good humor. lie gave the starving outcasts a good 
dinner and twopence in money each, and passed 
them through his ranks to make their way whither 
they would. 

More days passed; food grew scarcer; there were 
more “ useless mouths” in the town; John de Yienno 
decided to try this experiment again. Five hundred 
more were thrust from the gates. This time King 
Edward was not in a good humor. He bade his sol¬ 
diers drive them back at sword’s-point. The gov¬ 
ernor refused to admit them into the town. The 
whole miserable multitude died of starvation in sight 
of both camps, Such were the amenities of war in 
the Middle Ages. Mercy was then the rarest of the 
virtues. 

A letter was now sent to the French king, Philip 
de Yalois, imploring succor. They had eaten, said 
the governor, their horses, their dogs, even the rats 
and mice; nothing remained but to eat each other. 
Unluckily, the English, not the French, king re¬ 
ceived this letter, and the English host grew more 
watchful than ever. But Philip de Yalois needed not 
letters to tell him of the extremity of the garrison; 


THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 


153 


lie knew it well, and knew as well that haste alone 
could save him one of his fairest towns. 

But he had suffered a frightful defeat at Crecy 
only five days before the siege of Calais began. 
Twelve hundred of his knights and thirty thousand 
of his foot-soldiers—a number equal to the whole 
English force—had been slain on the field; thou¬ 
sands of others had been taken prisoner; a new 
army was not easily to be raised. Months passed 
before Philip was able to come to the relief of the 
beleaguered stronghold. The Oriflamme, the sacred 
banner of the realm, never displayed but in times 
of dire extremity, was at length unfurled to the 
winds, and from every side the great vassals of the 
kingdom hastened to its support. France, ever pro¬ 
lific of men, poured forth her sons until she had 
another large army in the field. In July of 1347, 
eleven months after the siege began, the garrison, 
weary with long waiting, saw afar from their look¬ 
out towers the floating banners of France, and 
beneath them the faintly-seen forms of a mighty 
host. 

The glad news spread through the town. The 
king was coming with a great army at his back! 
their sufferings had not been in vain; they would 
soon bo relieved, and those obstinate English bo 
driven into the sea! Had a fleet of bread-ships 
broken through the blockade, and sailed with waving 
pennons into the harbor, the souls of the garrison 
could not have been more uplifted with joy. 

Alas! it was a short-lived joy. Not many days 
elapsed before that great host faded before their 


154 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


eyes like a mist under the sun-rays, its banners 
lifting and falling as they slowly vanished into the 
distance, the gleam of its many steel-headed weapons 
dying out until not a point of light remained. Their 
gladness turned into redoubled misery as they saw 
themselves thus left to their fate; their king, who 
had marched up with such a gallant show of banners 
and arms, marching away without striking a blow. 
It was hard to believe it; but there they went, and 
there the English lay. 

The soil of France had never seen anything quite 
so ludicrous—but for its tragic side—as this march 
of Philip the king. Two roads led to the town, but 
these King Edward, who was well advised of what 
was coming, had taken care to intrench and guard 
so strongly that it would prove no light nor safe 
matter to force a way through. Philip sent out his 
spies, learned what was before him, and, full of the 
memory of Crecy, decided that it would be too 
costly an experiment to attack those works. But 
were not these the days of chivalry? was not 
Edward famed for his chivalrous spirit ? Surely he, 
as a noble and puissant knight, would not take an 
unfair advantage of his adversary. As a knight of 
renown he could not refuse to march into the open 
field, and trust to God and St. George of England 
for his defence, as against God and St. Denys of 
France. 

Philip, thereupon, sent four of his principal lords 
to the English king, saying that he was there to do 
battle, as knight against knight, but could find no 
way to come to him. He requested, therefore, that a 


THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 


155 


council should meet to fix upon a place of battle, 
where the difference between him and his cousin of 
England might be fairly decided. 

Surely such a request had never before been made 
to an opposing general. Doubtless King Edward 
laughed in his beard at the naive proposal, even if 
courtesy kept him from laughing in the envoys’ 
faces. As regards his answer, we cannot quote its 
words, but its nature may be gathered from the fact 
that Philip soon after broke camp, and marched back 
over the road by which he had come, saying to him¬ 
self, no doubt, that the English king lacked knightly 
honor, or he would not take so unfair an advantage 
of a foe. And thus ended this strange episode in 
war, Philip marching away with all the bravery of 
his host, Edward grimly turning again to the town 
which he held in his iron grasp. 

The story of the siege of Calais concludes in a 
highly dramatic fashion. It was a play presented 
upon a great stage, but with true dramatic acces¬ 
sories of scenery and incident. These have been 
picturesquely preserved by the old chroniclers, 
and are well worthy of being again presented. 
Froissart has told the tale in his own inimitable 
fashion. We follow others in telling it in more 
modern phrase. 

When the people of Calais saw that they were de¬ 
serted by their king, hope suddenly fled from their 
hearts. Longer defence meant but deeper misery. 
Nothing remained but surrender. Stout-hearted John 
de Vienne, their commander, seeing that all was at 
an end, mounted the walls with a flag of truce, and 


156 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


made signs that he wished to speak with some person 
of the besieging host. Word of this was brought to 
the English king, and he at once sent Sir Walter de 
Manny and Sir Basset as his envoys to confer with 
the bearer of the flag. The governor looked down 
upon them from the walls with sadness in his eyes 
and the lines of starvation on his face. 

“ Sirs,” he said, “ valiant knights you are, as I well 
know. As for me, I have obeyed the command of 
the king, my master, by doing all that lay in my 
power to hold for him this town. Now succor has 
failed us, and food we have none. We must all die 
of famine unless your noble and gentle king will 
have mercy on us, and let us go free, in exchange for 
the town and all the goods it contains, of which there 
is great abundance.” 

“We know something of the intention of our 
master,” answered Sir Walter. “He will certainly 
not let you go free, but will require you to surrender 
without conditions, some of you to be held to ransom, 
others to be put to death. Your people have put 
him to such despite by their bitter obstinacy, and 
caused him such loss of treasure and men, that he is 
sorely grieved against them.” 

“ You make it too hard for us,” answered the gov¬ 
ernor. “We are here a small company of knights 
and squires, who have served our king to our own 
pain and misery, as you would serve yours in like 
case; but rather than let the least lad in the town 
suffer more than the greatest of us, we will endure 
the last extremity of pain. We beg of you to plead 
for us with your king for pity, and trust that, by 


THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 


157 


God’s grace, his purpose will change, and his gentle¬ 
ness yield us pardon.” 

The envoys, much moved by the wasted face and 
earnest appeal of the governor, returned with his 
message to the king, whom they found in an unre¬ 
lenting mood. He answered them that he would 
make no other terms. The garrison must yield them¬ 
selves to his pleasure. Sir Walter answered with 
words as wise as they were bold,— 

“ I beg you to consider this more fully,” he said, 
“ for you may be in the wrong, and make a danger¬ 
ous example from which some of us may yet suffer. 
We shall certainly not very gladly go into any for¬ 
tress of yours for defence, if you should put any of 
the people of this town to death after they yield; 
for in like case the French will certainly deal with us 
in the same fashion.” 

Others of the lords present sustained Sir Walter in 
this opinion, and presented the case so strongly that 
the king yielded. 

“ I will not be alone against you all,” he said, after 
an interval of reflection. “This much will I yield. 
Go, Sir Walter, and say to the governor that all the 
grace I can give him is this. Let him send me six 
of the chief burgesses of the town, who shall come 
out bareheaded, barefooted, and barelegged, clad only 
in their shirts, and with halters around their necks, 
with the keys of the tower and castle in their hands. 
These must yield themselves fully to my will. The 
others I will take to mercy.” 

Sir Walter returned with this message, saying that 
no hope of better terms could be had of the king. 

14 


158 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


* t: Then I beg you to wait here,” said Sir John, “ till 
I can take your message to the townsmen, who sent 
me here, and bring you their reply.” 

Into the town went the governor, where he sought 
the market-place, and soon the town-bell was ringing 
its mustering peal. Quickly the people gathered, 
eager, says Jehan le Eel, “ to hear their good news, 
for they were all mad with hunger.” Sir John told 
them his message, saying,— 

“ No other terms are to be had, and you must de¬ 
cide quickly, for our foes ask a speedy answer.” 

His words were followed by weeping and much 
lamentation among the people. Some of them must 
die. Who should it be ? Sir John himself shed 
tears for their extremity. It was not in his heart to 
name the victims to the wrath of the English king. 

At length the richest burgess of the town, Eustace 
de St. Pierre, stepped forward and said, in tones of 
devoted resolution,— 

“ My friends and fellows, it would be great grief 
to let you all die by famine or otherwise, when there 
is a means given to save you. Great grace would lit* 
win from our Lord who could keep this people from 
dying. For myself, I have trust in God that if I 
save this people by my death I shall have pardon for 
my faults. Therefore, I offer myself as the first of 
the six, and am willing to put myself at the mercy 
of King Edward.” 

He was followed by another rich burgess, Jehan 
H’Aire by name, who said, “I will keep company 
with my gossip Eustace.” 

Jacques de Wisant and his brother, Peter de Wi* 


THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 


159 


sant, both rich citizens, next offered themselves, and 
two others quickly made up the tale. Word was 
taken to Sir Walter of what had been done, and the 
victims apparelled themselves as the king had com¬ 
manded. 

It was a sad procession that made its way to the 
gate of the town. Sir John led the way, the devoted 
six followed, while the remainder of the towns-people 
made their progress woful with tears and cries of 
grief. Months of suffering had not caused them 
deeper sorrow than to see these their brave hostages 
marching to death. 

The gate opened. Sir John and the six burgesses 
passed through. It closed behind them. Sir Walter 
stood waitin <r. 

o 

“ I deliver to you, as captain of Calais,” said Sir 
John, “ and by the consent of all the people of the 
town, these six burgesses, who I swear to you are 
the richest and most honorable burgesses of Calais. 
Therefore, gentle knight, I beg you pray the king to 
have mercy on them, and grant them their lives.” 

“ What the king will do I cannot say,” answered 
Sir Walter, “but I shall do for them the best I can.” 

The coming of the hostages roused great feeling 
in the English host. Their pale and wasted faces, 
their miserable state, the fate which threatened them, 
roused pity and sympathy in the minds of many, 
and not the least in that of the queen, who was with 
Edward in the camp, and came with him and his 
train of nobles as they approached the place to which 
the hostages had been led. 

When they were brought before the king the bur- 


160 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


gesses kneeled and piteously begged his grace, Eustace 
saying,— 

“ Gentle king, here be we six, who were burgesses 
of Calais, and great merchants. We bring you the 
keys of the town and the castle, and submit our¬ 
selves fully to your will, to save the remainder of our 
people, who have already suffered great pain. We 
beseech you to have mercy and pity on us through 
your high nobleness.” 

His words brought tears from many persons there 
present, for naught so piteous had ever come before 
them. But the king looked on them with vindictive 
eyes, and for some moments stood in lowering silence. 
Then he gave the harsh command to take these men 
and strike off their heads. 

At this cruel sentence the lords of his council 
crowded round the king, begging for compassion, but 
he turned a deaf ear to their pleadings. Sir Walter 
de Manny then said, his eyes fixed in sorrow on the 
pale and trembling victims,— 

“ Hoble sire, for God’s sake restrain your wrath. 
You have the renown of all gentleness and nobility ; 
I pray you do not a thing that can lay a blemish on 
your fair fame, or give men cause to speak of you 
despitefully. Every man will say it is a great cruelty 
to put to death such honest persons, who of their own 
will have put themselves into your hands to save the 
remainder of their people.” 

These words seemed rather to heighten than to 
soften the king’s wrath. He turned away fiercely, 
saying,— 

“Hold your peace, Master Walter; it shall be as I 


THE SIEGE OF CALAIS. 


161 


have said.—Call the headsman. They of Calais havo 
made so many of my men to die, that they must die 
themselves.” 

The queen had listened sadly to these words, while 
tears flowed freely from her gentle eyes. On hear¬ 
ing the harsh decision of her lord and king, she could 
restrain herself no longer. With streaming eyes she 
cast herself on her knees at his feet, and turned up 
to him her sweet, imploring face. 

“Gentle sir,’’she said, “since that day in which I 
passed over sea in great peril, as you know, I havo 
asked no favor from you. Now I pray and beseech 
you with folded hands, in honor of the Son of tho 
Virgin Mary, and for the love which you bear me, 
that you will have mercy on these poor men.” 

The king looked down upon her face, wet with 
tears, and stood silent for a few minutes. At length 
he spoke. 

“ Ah, dame, I would you had been in some other 
place this day. You pray so tenderly that I cannot 
refuse you. Though it is much against my will, 
nevertheless take them, I give them to you to use as 
you will.” 

The queen, filled with joy at these words of grace 
and mercy, returned glad thanks to the king, and 
bade those near her to take the halters from the 
necks of the burgesses and clothe them. Then she 
saw that a good dinner was set before them, and 
gave each of them six nobles, afterwards directing 
that they should be taken in safety through tho 
English army and set at liberty. 

Thus ended that memorable siege of Calais, with 
in —I 14* 


1G2 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


one of the most dramatic incidents which history 
has to tell. For more than two centuries the cap¬ 
tured city remained in English hands, being theirs 
long after they had lost all other possessions on the 
soil of France. At length, in 1558, in the reign of 
Queen Mary, it was taken by the French, greatly to 
the chagrin of the queen, who is reported to have 
said, “When I die, you will find the word Calais 
written on my heart.” 


THE BLACK PRINCE AT 
POITIERS. 


Through the centre of France marched the Black 
Prince, with a small but valiant army. Into the 
heart of that fair kingdom had he come, ravaging 
the land as he went, leaving misery and destitution 
at every step, when suddenly across his line of march 
there appeared an unlooked-for obstacle. The plun¬ 
dering marches of the English had roused the 
French. In hosts they had gathered round their 
king, marched in haste to confront the advancing 
foe, and on the night of Saturday, September 17, 
1356, the English found their line of retreat cut off 
by what seemed an innumerable array of knights 
and men-at-arms, filling the whole country in their 
front as far as eye could see, closing with a wall of 
hostile steel their only road to safety. 

The danger was great. For two years the Black 
Prince and his army of foragers had held Franco 
at their mercy, plundering to their hearts’ content. 
The year before, the young prince had led his army 
up the Garonne into—as an ancient chronicler tells 
us—“ what was before one of the fat countries of the 
world, the people good and simple, who did not know 

what war was; indeed, no war had been waged 

163 


1G4 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


against them till the prince came. The English and 
Gascons found the country full and gay, the rooms 
adorned with carpets and draperies, the caskets and 
chests full of fair jewels. But nothing was safe 
from these robbers. They, and especially the Gas¬ 
cons, who are very greedy, carried off everything.” 
When they reached Bordeaux their horses were “ so 
laden with spoils that they could hardly move.” 

Again the prince had led his army of freebooters 
through France, but he was not to march out again 
witii the same impunity as before. King John, who 
had just come to the throne, hastily gathered an 
army and marched to his country’s relief. On the 
night named the Black Prince, marching briskly 
forward with his small force of about eight thousand 
men, found himself suddenly in face of an over¬ 
whelming array of not less than sixty thousand of 
the best fighting blood of France. 

The case seemed hopeless. Surrender appeared 
the only resource of the English. Just ten years 
before, at Crecy, Edward III., in like manner driven 
to bay, had with a small force of English put to rout 
an overwhelming body of French. In that affair 
the Black Prince, then little more than a boy, had 
won the chief honor of the day. But it was beyond 
hope that so great a success could again be attained. 
It seemed madness to join battle with such a dispro¬ 
portion of numbers. Yet the prince remembered 
Crecy, and simply said, on being told how mighty 
was the host of the French,— 

“Well, in the name of God, let us now study how 
we shall fight with them at our advantage.” 


THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. 165 

Small as was the English force, it had all the ad¬ 
vantages of position. In its front were thick and 
strong hedges. It could be approached only by a 
deep and narrow lane that ran between vineyards. 
In the rear was higher ground, on which the small 
body of men-at-arms were stationed. The bowmen 
lay behind the hedges and in the vineyards, guard¬ 
ing the lane Df approach. Here they lay that night, 
awaiting the fateful morrow. 

With the morning’s light the French army was 
drawn up in lines of assault. “ Then trumpets blew 
up through the host,” says gossipy old Froissart, 
“ and every man mounted on horseback and went 
into the field, where they saw the king’s banner 
wave with the wind. There might have been seen 
great nobles of fair harness and rich armory of 
banners and pennons; for there was all the flower 
of France; there was none durst abide at home, 
without he would be shamed forever.” 

It was Sunday morning, a suitable day for tho 
church to take part in the affair. Those were times 
* in which the part of the church was apt to be played 
with sword and spear, but on this occasion it bore 
the olive-branch. At an early hour the cardinal of 
Perigord appeared on the scene, eager to make peace 
between the opposing forces. The pope had com¬ 
missioned him to this duty. 

“Sir,” he said, kneeling before King John, “ye 
have here all the flower of your realm against a 
handful of Englishmen, as regards your company. 
And, sir, if ye may have them accorded to you with¬ 
out battle, it shall be more profitable and honorable 


16G 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


than to adventure this noble chivalry. I beg you 
let me, in the name of God and humility, ride to the 
prince and show him in what danger ye have him 
in.” 

“ That pleases me well,” answered the king. “ Go; 
but return again shortly.” 

The cardinal thereupon rode to the English side 
and accosted the prince, whom he found on foot 
among his men. A courteous greeting passed. 

“ Fair son,” said the envoy of peace, “ if you and 
your council know justly the power of the French 
king, you will suffer me to treat for peace between 
you.” 

“ I would gladly fall to any reasonable way,” an¬ 
swered the prince, “if but my honor and that of 
my people be saved.” 

Some further words passed, and the cardinal rode 
again to the king. 

“ Sir,” he said, “ there seems hope of making peace 
with your foes, nor need you make haste to fight 
them, for they cannot flee if they would. I beg you, 
therefore, to forbear for this day, and put off the 
battle till to-morrow sunrise. That may give time 
to conclude a truce.” 

This advice was not pleasing to the king, who saw 
no wisdom in delay, but the cardinal in the end per¬ 
suaded him to consent to a day’s respite. The con¬ 
ference ended, the king’s pavilion of red silk was 
raised, and word sent through the army that the 
men might take their ease, except the advanced 
forces of the constable and marshal. 

All that day the cardinal kept himself busy in 


CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME POITIERS 




















THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. 


167 


earnest efforts to effect an agreement. Back and 
forth he rode between the tents of the king and the 
prince, seeking to make terms of peace or surrender. 
Offer after offer was made and refused. The king’s 
main demand was that four of the principal English¬ 
men should be placed in his hands, to deal with as 
he would, and all the others yield themselves pris¬ 
oners. This the prince refused. He would agree 
to return all the castles and towns he had taken, 
surrender all prisoners, and swear not to bear arms 
against the French for seven years; this and no 
more he would offer. 

King John would listen to no such terms. He 
had the English at his mercy, as he fully believed, 
and it was for him, not for them, to make terms. 
He would be generous. The prince and a hundred 
of his knights alone should yield themselves pris¬ 
oners. The rest might go free. Surely this was a 
most favorable offer, pleaded the cardinal. But so 
thought not the Black Prince, who refused it abso¬ 
lutely, and the cardinal returned in despair to Poi¬ 
tiers. 

That day of respite was not wasted by the prince. 
What he lacked in men he must make up in work. 
He kept his men busily employed, deepening the 
dikes, strengthening the hedges, making all the prep¬ 
arations that skill suggested and time permitted. 

The sun rose on Monday morning, and with its 
first beams the tireless peace-maker was again on 
horse, with the forlorn hope that the bloody fray 
might still be avoided. He found the leaders of the 
hosts in a different temper from that of the day 


168 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


before. The time for words had gone; that for blows 
had come. 

“ Return whither ye will,” was King John’s abrupt 
answer; “ bring hither no more words of treaty or 
peace; and if you love yourself, depart shortly.” 

To the prince rode the good cardinal, overcome 
with emotion. 

“ Sir,” he pleaded, “ do what you can for peace. 
Otherwise there is no help from battle, for I can 
find no spirit of accord in the French king.” 

“ Kor here,” answered the prince, cheerfully. “ 1 
and all my people are of the same intent,—and God 
help the right 1” 

The cardinal turned and rode away, sore-hearted 
with pity. As he went the prince turned to his 
men. 

“ Though,” he said, “ we be but a small company 
as compared with the power of our foes, let not that 
abash us; for victory lies not in the multitude of 
people, but goes where God sends it. If fortune 
makes the day ours, we shall be honored by all the 
world; but if we die, the king, my father, and your 
good friends and kinsmen shall revenge us. There¬ 
fore, sirs and comrades, I require you to do your 
duty this day; for if God be pleased, and Saint 
George aid, this day you shall see me a good knight.” 

The battle began with a charge of three hundred 
French knights up the narrow lane. Ko sooner had 
they appeared than the vineyards and hedges rained 
arrows upon them, killing and wounding knights < 
and horses; the animals, wild with pain, flinging 
and trampling their masters; the knights, heavy 


THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. 


*169 


with armor and disabled by wounds, strewing that 
fatal lane with their bodies; while still the storm of 
steel-pointed shafts dealt death in their midst. 

The horsemen fell back in dismay, breaking the 
thick ranks of footmen behind them, and spreading 
confusion wherever they appeared. At this critical 
moment a body of English horse, who were posted 
on a little hill to the right, rushed furiously upon 
the French flank. At the same time the archers 
poured their arrows upon the crowded and disor¬ 
dered mass, and the prince, seeing the state of the 
enemy, led his men-at-arms vigorously upon their 
broken ranks. 

“ St. George for Guienne!” was the cry, as the 
horsemen spurred upon the panic-stricken masses 
of the French. 

“ Let us push to the French king’s station; there 
lies the heart of the battle,” said Lord Chandos to 
the prince. “He is too valiant to fly, I fancy. If 
we fight well, I trust, by the grace of God and St. 
George, we shall have him. You said we should see 
you this day a good knight.” 

“ You shall not see me turn back,” said the prince. 
“ Advance, banner, in the name of God and St. 
George!” 

On went the banner; on came the array of fighting 
knights; into the French host they pressed deeper 
and deeper, King John their goal. The field was 
strewn with dead and dying ; panic was spreading 
in widening circles through the French army; the 
repulsed horsemen were in full flight and thousands 
of those behind them broke and followed. King 

15 


ii 


170 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


John fought with knightly courage, his son Philip, 
a boy of sixteen, by his side, aiding him by his cries 
of warning. But nothing could withstand the Eng¬ 
lish onset. Some of his defenders fell, others fled; 
he would have fallen himself but for the help of a 
French knight, in the English service. 

“ Sir, yield you,” he called to the king, pressing 
between him and his assailants. 

“ To whom shall I yield ?” asked the king. “ Where 
is my cousin, the prince of Wales?” 

“ He is not here, sir. Yield, and I will bring you 
to him.” 

“ And who are you ?” 

“I am Denis of Morbecque, a knight of Artois. 
I serve the English king, for I am banished from 
France, and all I had has been forfeited.” 

“ Then I yield me to you,” said the king, handing 
him his right gauntlet. 

Meanwhile the rout of the French had become 
complete. On all sides they were in flight; on all 
sides the English were in pursuit. The prince had 
fought until he was overcome with fatigue. 

“ I see no more banners or pennons of the French,” 
said Sir John Chandos, who had kept beside him the 
day through. “ You are sore chafed. Set your ban¬ 
ner high in this bush, and let us rest.” 

The prince’s pavilion was set up, and drink brought 
him. As he quaffed it, he asked if any one had 
tidings of the French king. 

“ He is dead or taken,” was the answer. “ He has 
not left the field.” 

Two knights were thereupon sent to look for him, 


THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. 171 

and had not got far before they saw a troop of men- 
at-arms wearily approaching. In their midst was 
Iiing John, afoot and in peril, for they had taken 
him from Sir Denis, and were quarrelling as to who 
owned him. 

“ Strive not about my taking,” said the king. 
“Lead me to the prince. I am rich enough to make 
you all rich.” 

The brawling went on, however, until the lords 
who had been sent to seek him came near. 

“What means all this, good sirs?” they asked. 
“Why do you quarrel?” 

“We have the French king prisoner,” was the 
answer; “ and there are more than ten knights and 
squires who claim to have taken him and his son.” 

The envoys at this bade them halt and cease their 
clamor, on pain of their heads, and taking the king 
and his son from their midst they brought him to the 
tent of the prince of Wales, where the exalted cap¬ 
tives were received with all courtesy. 

The battle, begun at dawn, was ended by noon. 
In that time was slain “ all the flower of France; 
and there was taken, with the king and the Lord 
Philip his son, seventeen earls, besides barons, 
knights, and squires.” 

The men returning from the pursuit brought in 
twice as many prisoners as their own army numbered 
in all. So great was the host of captives that many 
of them were ransomed on the spot, and set free on 
their word of honor to return to Bordeaux with 
their ransom before Christmas. 

The prince and his comrades had breakfasted that 


172 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


morning in dread; they supped that night in triumph. 
The supper party, as described by Froissart, is a true 
picture of the days of chivalry,—in war all cruelty, 
in peace all courtesy; ruthless in the field, gentle and 
ceremonious at the feast. Thus the picturesque old 
chronicler limns it,— 

“ The prince made the king and his son, the Lord 
James of Eourhon, the Lord John d’Artois, the earl of 
Tancarville, the Lord d’Estampes, the Earl Dammar- 
tyn, the earl of Greville, and the earl of Pertney, to sit 
all at one board, and other lords, knights, and squires 
at other tables; and always the prince served before 
the king as humbly as he could, and would not sit at 
the king’s board, for any desire that the king could 
make; but he said he was not sufficient to sit at the 
table with so great a prince as the king was; but then 
he said to the king, ‘ Sir, for God’s sake, make none evil 
nor heavy cheer, though God did not this day con¬ 
sent to follow your will; for, sir, surely the king my 
father shall bear you as much honor and amity as 
he may do, and shall accord with you so reasonably, 
and ye shall ever be friends together after; and, sir, 
methinks you ought to rejoice, though the journey 
be not as you would have had it; for this day ye 
have won the high renown of prowess, and have 
passed this day in valiantness all other of your 
party. Sir, I say not this to mock you; for all that 
be on our party, that saw every man’s deeds, are 
plainly accorded by true sentence to give you the 
prize and chaplet.” 

So ended that great day at Poitiers. It ended 
miserably enough for France, the routed soldiery 


THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS. 


173 


themselves becoming bandits to ravage her, and the 
people being robbed for ransom till the whole realm 
was given over to misery and woe. 

It ended famously for England, another proud 
chaplet of victory being added to the crown of glory 
of Edward III. and his valiant son, the great day 
at Crecy being matched with as great a day at Poi¬ 
tiers. Agincourt was still to come, the three being 
the most notable instances in history of the triumph 
of a handful of men well led over a great but feebly- 
handled host. The age of knighthood and chivalry 
reached its culmination on these three memorable 
days. It ended at Agincourt, “villanous gunpowder” 
sounding its requiem on that great field. Cannon, 
indeed, had been used by Edward III. in his wars; 
but not until after this date did fire-arms banish the 
spear and the bow from the “ tented field.” 


WAT TYLER AND THE MEN 

OF KENT. 


In that year of woe and dread, 1348, the Black 
Death fell upon England. Never before bad so 
frightful a calamity been known; never since has it 
been equalled. Men died by millions. All Europe 
bad been swept by tbe plague, as by a besom of de¬ 
struction, and now England became its prey. Tbe 
population of tbe island at that period was not great, 
—some three or four millions in all. When tbe 
plague bad passed more than balf of these were in 
their graves, and in many places there were hardly 
enough living to bury the dead. 

We call it a calamity. It is not so sure that it 
was. Life in England at that day, for the masses 
of the people, was not so precious a boon that death 
bad need to be sorely deplored. A handful of lords 
and a host of laborers, tbe latter just above tbe state 
of slavery, constituted tbe population. Many of the 
serfs bad been set free, but the new liberty of the 
people was not a state of unadulterated happiness. 
War had drained tbe land. Tbe luxury of tbe nobles 
added to tbe drain. The patricians caroused. Tbe 
plebeians suffered. The Black Death came. After it 
had passed, labor, for tbe first time in English his¬ 
tory, was master of tbe situation. 

174 


WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. 


175 


Laborers had grown scarce. Many men refused 
to work. The first general strike for higher wages 
began. In the country, fields were left untilled and 
harvests rotted on the ground. “The sheep and 
cattle strayed through the fields and corn, and there 
were none left who could drive them.” In the towns, 
craftsmen refused to work at the old rate of wages. 
Higher wages were paid, but the scarcity of food 
made higher prices, and men were little better otf. 
Many laborers, indeed, declined to work at all, be¬ 
coming tramps,—what were known as “ sturdy beg¬ 
gars,”—or haunting the forests as bandits. 

The king and parliament sought to put an end to 
•this state of affairs by law. An ordinance was passed 
whose effect would have made slaves of the people. 
Every man under sixty, not a land owner or already 
at work (says this famous act), must work for the 
employer who demands his labor, and for the rate of 
wages that prevailed two years before the plague. 
The man who refused should be thrown into prison. 
This law failed to work, and sterner measures were 
passed. The laborer was once more made a serf, 
bound to the soil, his wage-rate fixed by parlia¬ 
ment. Law after law followed, branding with a hot 
iron on the forehead being finally ordered as a re¬ 
straint to runaway laborers. It was the first great 
effort made by the class in power to put down an 
industrial revolt. 

The peasantry and the mechanics of the towns 
resisted. The poor found their mouth-piece in John 
Ball, “ d mad priest of Kent,” as Froissart calls him. 
Mad his words must have seemed to the nobles of the 


176 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


land. “ Good people,” he declared, “ things will never 
go well in England so long as goods be not in com¬ 
mon, and so long as there be villains and gentlemen. 
By what right are they whom we call lords greater 
folk than we ? On what grounds have they deserved 
it ? Why do they hold us in serfage ? If we all 
came of the same father and mother, of Adam and 
Eve, how can they say or prove that they are better 
than we, if it be not that they make us gain for 
them by our toil what they spend in their pride ? 
They are clothed in velvet, and warm in their furs 
and their ermines, while we are covered with rags. 
They have wine and spices and fair bread; and we 
have oat-cake and straw, and water to drink. They 
have leisure and fine houses; we have pain and 
labor, the rain and the wind in the fields. And yet 
it is of us and of our toil that these men hold their 
state.” 

So spoke this early socialist. So spoke his hearers 
in the popular rhyme of the day : 

“ When Adam delved and Eve span, 

Who was then the gentleman?” 

So things went on for years, growing worse year by 
year, the fire of discontent smouldering, ready at a 
moment to burst into flame. 

At length the occasion came. Edward the Third 
died, but he left an ugly heritage of debt behind 
him. His useless wars in France had beggared the 
crown. Hew money must be raised. Parliament 
laid a poll-tax on every person in the realm, the 
poorest to pay as much as the wealthiest. 


WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. 177 

Here was an application of the doctrine of equality 
of which the people did not approve. The land was 
quickly on fire from sea to sea. Crowds of peasants 
gathered and drove the tax-gatherers with clubs from 
their homes. Eude rhymes passed from lip to lip, 
full of the spirit of revolt. All over southern Eng¬ 
land spread the sentiment of rebellion. 

The incident which set flame to the fuel was this. 
At Dartford, in Kent, lived one Wat Tyler, a hardy 
soldier who had served in the French wars. To his 
house, in his absence, came a tax-collector, and de¬ 
manded the tax on his daughter. The mother de¬ 
clared that she was not taxable, being under fourteen 
years of age. The collector thereupon seized the 
child in an insulting manner, so frightening her that 
her screams reached the ears of her father, who was 
at work not far off. Wat flew to the spot, struck 
one blow, and the villanous collector lay dead at his 
feet. 

Within an hour the people of the town were in 
arms. As the story spread through the country, the 
people elsewhere rose and put themselves under the 
leadership of Wat Tyler. In Essex was another 
party in arms, under a priest called Jack Straw. 
Canterbury rose in rebellion, plundered the palace 
of the archbishop, and released John Ball from the 
prison to which this “ mad” socialist had been con¬ 
signed. The revolt spread like wildfire. County 
after county rose in insurrection. But the heart of 
the rebellion lay in Kent, and from that county 
marched a hundred thousand men, with Wat Tyler 
at their head, London their goal. 

II .—m 


178 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


To Blackheath they came, the multitude swelling 
as it marched. Every lawyer they met was killed. 
The houses of the stewards were burned, and the 
records of the manor courts flung into the flames. 
A wild desire for liberty and equality animated the 
mob, yet they did no further harm. All travellers 
were stopped and made to swear that they would be 
true to King Kichard and the people. The king’s 
mother fell into their hands, but all the harm done her 
was the being made to kiss a few rough-bearded men 
who vowed loyalty to her son. 

The young king—then a boy of sixteen—addressed 
them from a boat in the river. But his council 
would not let him land, and the peasants, furious at 
his distrust, rushed upon London, uttering cries of 
“ Treason!” The drawbridge of London Bridge had 
been raised, but the insurgents had friends in the 
city who lowered it, and quickly the capital was 
swarming with Wat Tyler’s infuriated men. 

Soon the prisons were broken open, and their in¬ 
mates had joined the insurgent ranks. The palace 
of the Duke of Lancaster, the Savoy, the most beau¬ 
tiful in England, was quickly in flames. That noble¬ 
man, detested by the people, had fled in all haste 
to Scotland. The Temple, the head-quarters of the 
lawyers, was set on fire, and its books and documents 
reduced to ashes. The houses of the foreign mer¬ 
chants were burned. There was “ method in the 
madness” of the insurgents. They sought no indis¬ 
criminate ruin. The lawyers and the foreigners 
were their special detestation. Bobbery was not 
permitted. One thief was seen with a silver vessel 


WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. 


179 


which he had stolen from the Savoy. He and his 
plunder were flung together into the flames. They 
were, as they boasted, “ seekers of truth and justice, 
not thieves or robbers.” 

Thus passed the first day of the peasant occupation 
of London, the people of the town in terror, the in¬ 
surgents in subjection to their leaders, and still more 
so to their own ideas. Many of them were drunk, 
but no outrages were committed. The influence of 
one terrible example repressed all theft. Never had 
so orderly a r.iob held possession of so great a city. 

On the second day, Wat Tyler and a band of his 
followers forced their way into the Tower. The 
knights of the garrison were panic-stricken, but no 
harm was done them. The peasants, in rough good 
humor, took them by the beards, and declared that 
they were now equals, and that in the time to come 
they would be good friends and comrades. 

But this rude jollity ceased when Archbishop Sud¬ 
bury, who had been active in preventing the king 
from landing from the Thames, and the ministers 
who were concerned in the levy of the poll-tax, fell 
into their hands. Short shrift was given these de¬ 
tested officials. They were dragged to Tower Hill, 
and their heads struck off. 

“ IviDg Richard and the people!” was the rallying- 
cry of the insurgents. It went ill with those who 
hesitated to subscribe to this sentiment. So evidently 
were the peasants friendly to the king that the youth¬ 
ful monarch fearlessly sought them at Mile End, and 
held a conference with sixty thousand of them who 
lay there encamped. 


180 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


“ I am your king and lord, good people,” he boldly 
addressed them; “what will ye ? ” 

“We will that you set us free forever,” was the 
answer of the insurgents, “ us and our lands; and 
that we be never named nor held for serfs.” 

“ I grant it,” said the king. 

His words were received with shouts of joy. The 
conference then continued, the leaders of the peasants 
proposing four conditions, to all of which the king 
assented. These were, first, that neither they nor 
their descendants should ever be enslaved; second, 
that the rent of land should be paid in money at a 
fixed price, not in service ; third, that they should bo 
at liberty to buy and sell in market and elsewhere, 
like other free men; fourth, that they should be 
pardoned for past offences. 

“ I grant them all,” said Richard. “ Charters of 
freedom and pardon shall be at once issued. Go home 
and dwell in peace, and no harm shall come to you.” 

More than thirty clerks spent the rest of that day 
writing at all speed the pledges of amnesty promised 
by the king. These satisfied the bulk of the insur¬ 
gents, who quietly left for their homes, placing all 
confidence in the smooth promises of the youthful 
monarch. 

Some interesting scenes followed their return. 
The gates of the Abbey of St. Albans were forced 
open, and a throng of townsmen crowded in, led by 
one William Grindcobbe, who compelled the abbot to 
deliver up the charters which held the town in serf¬ 
age to the abbey. Then they burst into the cloister, 
sought the millstones which the courts had declared 


WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. 181 

should alone grind corn at St.Albans, and broke them 
into small pieces. These were distributed among 
the peasants as visible emblems of their new-gained 
freedom. 

Meanwhile, Wat Tyler had remained in London, 
with thirty thousand men at his back, to see that 
the kingly pledge was fulfilled. lie had not been at 
Mile End during the conference with the king, and 
was not satisfied with the demands of the peasants. 
He asked, in addition, that the forest laws should be 
abolished, and the woods made free. 

The next day came. Chance brought about a 
meeting between Wat and the king, and hot blood 
made it a tragedy. King Eichard was riding with 
a train of some sixty gentlemen, among them Wil¬ 
liam Walworth, the mayor of London, when, by ill 
hap, they came into contact with Wat and his fol¬ 
lowers. 

“There is the king,” said Wat. “I will go speak 
with him, and tell him what we want.” 

The bold leader of the peasants rode forward and 
confronted the monarch, who drew rein and waited 
to hear what he had to say. 

“King Eichard,” said Wat, “ dost thou see all my 
men there ?” 

“ Ay,” said the king. “ Why ?” 

“Because,” said Wat, “they are all at my com¬ 
mand, and have sworn to do whatever I bid them.” 

What followed is not very clear. Some say that 
Wat laid his hand on the king’s bridle, others that 
he fingered his dagger threateningly. Whatever 
the provocation, Walworth, the mayor, at that in- 

16 


182 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


stant pressed forward, sword in hand, and stabbed 
the unprotected man in the throat before be could 
make a movement of defence. He fell from bis 
horse, and was struck a death-blow by one of the 
king’s followers. 

This rash action was one full of danger. Only 
the ready wit and courage of the king saved the 
lives of bis followers,—perhaps of himself. 

“Kill! kill!” cried the furious peasants, “they 
have killed our captain.” 

Bows were bent, swords drawn, an ominous move¬ 
ment begun. The moment was a critical one. The 
young king proved himself equal to the occasion. 
Spurring bis horse, be rode boldly to the front of 
the mob. 

“ What need ye, my masters ?” be cried. “ That 
man is a traitor. I am your captain and your king. 
Follow me!” 

His words touched their hearts. With loud shouts 
of loyalty they followed him to the Tower, where 
be was met by bis mother with tears of joy. 

“ Rejoice and praise God,” the young king said to 
her; “ for I have recovered to-day my heritage which 
was lost, and the realm of England.” 

It was true ; the revolt was at an end. The fright¬ 
ened nobles had regained their courage, and six 
thousand knights were soon at the service of the 
king, pressing him to let them end the rebellion with 
sword and spear. 

He refused. His word had been passed, and he 
would live to it—at least, until the danger was 
passed. The peasants still in London received their 


WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT. 183 

charters of freedom and dispersed to their homes. 
The city was freed of the low-born multitude who 
had held it in mortal terror. 

Yet all was not over Many of the peasants wero 
still in arms. Those of St. Albans were emulated 
by those of St. Edmondsbury, where fifty thousand 
men broke their way into the abbey precincts, and 
forced the monks to grant a charter of freedom to 
the town. In Norwich a dyer, Littester by name, 
calling himself the King of the Commons, forced tho 
nobles captured by his followers to act as his meat- 
tasters, and serve him on their knees during his 
repasts. His reign did not last long. The Bishop 
of Norwich, with a following of knights and men- 
at-arms, fell on his camp and made short work of 
his majesty. 

The king, soon forgetting his pledges, led an army 
of forty thousand men through Kent and Essex, 
and ruthlessly executed the peasant leaders. Some 
fifteen hundred of them were put to death. The 
peasants resisted stubbornly, but they were put 
down. The jurors refused to bring the prisoners in 
guilty, until they were threatened with execution 
themselves. The king and council, in the end, seemed 
willing to compromise with the peasantry, but tho 
land-owners refused compliance. Their serfs were 
their property, they said, and could not be taken 
from them by king or parliament without their 
consent. “And this consent,” they declared, “wo 
have never given and never will give, were we all to 
< *e in one day.” 

Yet the revolt of the peasantry was not without 


184 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


its useful effect. From that time serfdom died rap¬ 
idly. Wages continued to rise. A century after the 
Black Death, a laborer’s work in England “com¬ 
manded twice the amount of the necessaries of life 
which could have been obtained for the wages paid 
under Edward the Third.” In a century and a half 
serfdom had almost vanished. 

Thus ended the greatest peasant outbreak that 
England ever knew. The outbreak of Jack Cade, 
which took place seventy years afterwards, was for 
political rather than industrial reform. During those 
seventy years the condition of the working-classes 
had greatly improved, and the occasion for industrial 
revolt correspondingly decreased. 


THE WHITE ROSE OF ENG¬ 
LAND. 


The wars of the White and the Eed Eoses were at 
an end, Lancaster had triumphed over York, Eichard 
III., the last of the Plantagenets, had died on Bos- 
worth field, and the Eed Eose candidate, Henry YII., 
was on the throne. It seemed fitting, indeed, that 
the party of the red should bear the banners of 
triumph, for the frightful war of white and red had 
deluged England with blood, and turned to crimson 
the green of many a fair field. Two of the White 
Eose claimants of the throne, the sons of Edward 
IY., had been imprisoned by Eichard III. in the 
Tower of London, and, so said common report, had 
been strangled in their beds. But their fate was 
hidden in mystery, and there were those who be¬ 
lieved that the princes of the Tower still lived. 

One claimant to the throne, a scion of the Whito 
Eose kings, Edward, Earl of Warwick, was still 
locked up in the Tower, so closely kept from human 
sight and knowledge as to leave the field open to tho 
claims of imposture. For suddenly a handsome 
youth appeared in Ireland declaring that he was the 
Earl of Warwick, escaped from the Tower, and ask¬ 
ing aid to help him regain the throne, which he 

16 * 185 


186 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


claimed as rightfully his. The story of this boy is a 
short one; the end of his career fortunately a comedy 
instead of a tragedy. In Ireland were many adher¬ 
ents of the house of York. The story of the hand¬ 
some lad was believed; he was crowned at Dublin,— 
the crown being taken from the head of a statue of 
the Yirgin Mary,—and was then carried home on 
the shoulders of a gigantic Irish chieftain, as was 
the custom in green Erin in those days. 

The youthful claimant had entered Ireland with a 
following of two thousand German soldiers, provided 
by Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, sister of Edward 
IY., who hated TIenry YII. and all the party of 
Lancaster with an undying hatred. From Ireland 
he invaded England, with an Irish following added 
to his German. His small army was met by the 
king with an overpowering force, half of it killed, 
the rest scattered, and the young impostor taken 
captive. 

Henry was almost the first king of Norman Eng¬ 
land who was not cruel by instinct. He could bo 
cruel enough by calculation, but he was not disposed 
to take life for the mere pleasure of killing. He 
knew this boy to be an impostor, since Edward, Earl 
of Warwick, was still in the Tower. The astute king 
deemed it wiser to make him a laughing-stock than 
a martyr. He made inquiry as to his origin. The 
boy proved to be the son of a baker of Oxford, his 
true name Lambert Simnel. He had been tutored 
to play the prince by an ambitious priest named 
Simons. This priest was shut up in prison, and died 
there. As for his pupil, the king contemptuously 


THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 187 

sent him into his kitchen, and condemned him to the 
servile office of turnspit. Afterwards, as young 
Simnel showed some intelligence and loyalty, he was 
made one of the king’s falconers. And so ended 
the story of this sham Plantagenet. 

Hardly had this ambitious boy been set to the 
humble work of turning a spit in the king’s kitchen, 
when a new claimant of the crown appeared,—a 
far more dangerous one. It is his story to which 
that of Lambert Simnel serves as an amusing pre¬ 
lude. 

On one fine day in the year 1492—Columbus being 
then on his way to the discovery of America—there 
landed at Cork, in a vessel hailing from Portugal, a 
young man very handsome in face, and very winning 
in manners, who lost no time in presenting himself 
to some of the leading Irish and telling them that 
he was Pichard, Duke of York, the second son of 
Edward IY. This story some of his hearers were 
not ready to believe. They had just passed through 
an experience of the same kind. 

“ That cannot be,” they said; “ the sons of King 
Edward were murdered by their uncle in the Tower.” 

“ People think so, I admit,” said the young stranger. 
“My brother was murdered there, foully killed in 
that dark prison. But I escaped, and for seven years 
have been wandering.” 

The boy had an easy and engaging manner, a 
fluent tongue, and told so well-devised and probable 
a story of the manner of his escape, that he had 
little difficulty in persuading his credulous hearers 
that he was indeed Prince Richard. Soon he had a 


188 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


party at his back, Cork shouted itself hoarse in i's 
favor, there was banqueting and drinking, and in 
this humble fashion the cause of the White Hose 
was resuscitated, the banners of York were again 
flung to the winds. 

We have begun our story in the middle. We must 
go back to its beginning. Margaret of Burgundy, 
whose hatred for the Lancastrian king was intense, 
had spread far and wide the rumor that Bichard, 
Luke of York, was still alive. The story was that 
the villains employed by Bichard III. to murder the 
princes in the Tower, had killed the elder only. Be- 
morse had stricken their hardened souls, and com¬ 
passion induced them to spare the younger, and 
privately to set him at liberty, he being bidden on 
peril of life not to divulge who he really was. This 
seed well sown, the astute duchess laid her plans to 
bring it to fruitage. A handsome youth was brought 
into her presence, a quick-witted, intelligent, crafty 
lad, with nimble tongue and unusually taking man¬ 
ners. Such, at least, was the story set afloat by 
Henry VII., which goes on to say that the duchess 
kept her protege concealed until she had taught him 
thoroughly the whole story of the murdered prince, 
instructed him in behavior suitable to his assumed 
birth, and filled his memory with details of the boy’s 
life, and certain secrets he would be likely to know, 
while advising him how to avoid certain awkward 
questions that might be asked. The boy was quick 
to learn his lesson, the hope of becoming king of 
England inciting his naturally keen wit. This done, 
the duchess sent him privately to Portugal, knowing 


THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 189 

well that if his advent could be traced to her house 
suspicion would be aroused. 

This is the narrative that has been transmitted to 
us, but it is one which, it must be acknowledged, has 
come through suspicious channels, as will appear in 
the sequel. But whatever be the facts, it is certain 
that about this time Henry YII. declared war against 
France, and that the war had not made much prog¬ 
ress before the youth described sailed from Portugal 
and landed in Cork, where he claimed to be Bichard, 
Duke of York, and the true heir of the English 
throne. 

And now began a most romantic and adventurous 
career. The story of the advent of a prince of the 
house of York in Ireland made its way through 
England and France. Henry YII. was just then too 
busy with his French war to attend to his new rival; 
but Charles YIII. of France saw here an opportunity 
of annoying his enemy. He accordingly sent envoys 
to Cork, with an invitation to the youth to seek his 
court, where he would be acknowledged as the true 
heir to the royal crown of England. 

The astute young man lost no time in accepting 
the invitation. Charles received him with as much 
honor as though he were indeed a king, appointed him 
a body-guard, and spread far and wide the statement 
that the Duke of York, the rightful heir of the 
English crown, was at his court, and that he would 
sustain his claim. What might have come of this, 
had the war continued, we cannot say. A number 
of noble Englishmen, friends of York, made their 
way to Paris, and became believers in the story of 


190 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


the young adventurer. But the hopes of the as* 
pirant in this quarter came to an end with the end¬ 
ing of the war. Charles’s secret purpose had been 
to force Henry to conclude a peace, and in this he 
succeeded. He had now no further use for his young 
protege. He had sufficient honor not to deliver him 
into Henry’s hands, as he was asked to do; but ho 
set him adrift from his own court, bidding him to 
seek his fortune elsewhere. 

From France the young aspirant made his way 
into Flanders, and presented himself at the court of 
the Duchess of Burgundy, with every appearance 
of never having been there before. He sought her, 
he said, as his aunt. The duchess received him with 
an air of doubt and suspicion. He was, she acknowl¬ 
edged, the image of her dear departed brother, but 
more evidence was needed. She questioned him, 
therefore, closely, before the members of her court, 
making searching inquiries into his earlier life and 
recollections. These he answered so satisfactorily 
that the duchess declared herself transported with 
astonishment and joy, and vowed that he was indeed 
her nephew, miraculously delivered from prison, 
brought from death to life, wonderfully preserved by 
destiny for some great fortune. She was not alone 
in this belief. All who heard his answers agreed 
with her, many of them borne away by his grace of 
person and manner and the fascination of his address. 
The duchess declared his identUy beyond doubt, did 
him honor as a born prince, gave him a body-guard 
of thirty halberdiers, who were clad in a livery of 
murrey and blue, and called him by the taking title 


THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 191 

of the “ White Rose of England.” lie seemed, indeed, 
like one risen from the grave to set afloat once more 
the banners of the White Rose of York. 

The tidings of what was doing in Flanders quickly 
reached England, where a party in favor of the as¬ 
pirant’s pretensions slowly grew up. Several noble¬ 
men joined it, discontent having been caused by cer¬ 
tain unpopular acts of the king. Sir Robert Clifford 
sailed to Flanders, visited Margaret’s court, and wrote 
back to England that there was no doubt that the 
young man was the Duke of York, whose person he 
knew as well as he knew his own. 

While these events were fomenting, secretly and 
openly, King Henry was at work, secretly and openly, 
to disconcert his foes. He set a guard upon the 
English ports, that no suspicious person should enter 
or leave the kingdom, and then put his wits to task 
to prove the falsity of the whole neatly-wrought tale. 
Two of those concerned in the murder of the princes 
were still alive,—Sir James Tirrel and John Dighton. 
Sir James claimed to have stood at the stair-foot, 
while Dighton and another did the murder, smother¬ 
ing the princes in their bed. To this they both testi¬ 
fied, though the king, for reasons unexplained, did 
not publish their testimony. 

Henry also sent spies abroad, to search into the 
truth concerning the assumed adventurer. These, 
being well supplied with money, and bidden to trace 
every movement of the youth, at length declared 
that they had discovered that he was the son of a 
Flemish merchant, of the city of Tournay, his name 
Perkin Warbeck, his knowledge of the language and 


192 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


manners of England having been derived from the 
English traders in Flanders. This information, with 
much to support it, was set afloat in England, and the 
king then demanded of the Archduke Philip, sover¬ 
eign of Burgundy, that he should give up this pre¬ 
tender, or banish him from his court. Philip replied 
that Burgundy was the domain of the duchess, who 
was mistress in her own land. In revenge, Henry 
closed all commercial communication between the 
two countries, taking from Antwerp its profitable 
market in English cloth. 

How tragedy followed comedy. Sir Bobert Clif¬ 
ford, who had declared the boy to be undoubtedly 
the Duke of York, suffered the king to convince him 
that he was mistaken, and denounced several noble¬ 
men as being secretly friends to Perkin Warbeck. 
These were arrested, and three of them beheaded, 
one of them, Sir William Stanley, having saved 
Henry’s life on Bosworth Field. But he was rich, 
and a seizure of his estate would swell the royal cof¬ 
fers. With Henry YII. gold weighed heavier than 
gratitude. 

For three years all was quiet. Perkin War- 
beck kept his princely state at the court of the 
Duchess of Burgundy, and the merchants of Flanders 
suffered heavily from the closure of the trade of 
Antwerp. This grew intolerable. The people were 
indignant. Something must be done. The pretended 
prince must leave Flanders, or he ran risk of being 
killed by its inhabitants. 

The adventurous youth was thus obliged to leave 
his refuge at Margaret’s court, and now entered 


THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 


193 


upon a more active career. Accompanied by a few 
hundred men, he sailed from Flanders and landed 
on the English coast at Deal. He hoped for a rising 
in his behalf. On the contrary, the country-people 
rose against him, killed many of his followers, and 
took a hundred and fifty prisoners. These were all 
hanged, by order of the king, along the sea-shore, as 
a warning to any others who might wish to invade 
England. 

Flanders was closed against the pretender. Ire¬ 
land was similarly closed, for Henry had gained the 
Irish to his side. Scotland remained, there being 
hostility between the English and Scottish kings. 
Hither the fugitive made his way. James IV. of 
Scotland gave him a most encouraging reception, 
called him cousin, and in a short time married him 
to one of the most beautiful and charming ladies of 
his court, Lady Catharine Gordon, a relative of the 
royal house of the Stuarts. 

For a time now the fortunes of the young aspirant 
improved. Henry, alarmed at his progress, sought by 
bribery of the Scottish lords to have him delivered 
into his hands. In this he failed; James was faith¬ 
ful to his word. Soon Perkin had a small army at 
his back. The Duchess of Burgundy provided him 
with men, money, and arms, till in a short time he 
had fifteen hundred good soldiers under his com¬ 
mand. 

With these, and with the aid of King James of, 
Scotland, who reinforced his army and accompanied 
him in person, he crossed the border into England, 
and issued a proclamation, calling himself King 
ii.—i n 17 


194 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Richard the Fourth, and offering large rewards to 
any one who should take or distress Henry Tudor, 
as he called the king. 

Unluckily for the young invader, the people of 
England had had enough of civil war. White Rose 
or Red Rose had become of less importance to them 
than peace and prosperity. They refused to rise in 
his support, and quickly grew to hate his soldiers, 
who, being of different nations, most of them brig¬ 
andish soldiers of fortune, began by quarrelling with 
one another, and ended by plundering the country. 

“ This is shameful,” said Perkin. “ I am not here 
to distress the English people. Rather than fill the 
country with misery, I will lose my rights.” 

King James laughed at his scruples, giving him to 
understand that no true king would stop for such 
a trifle. But Perkin was resolute, and the army 
marched back again into Scotland without fighting 
a battle. The White Rose had shown himself unfit 
for kingship in those days. He was so weak as to 
have compassion for the people, if that was the true 
cause of his retreat. 

This invasion had one unlooked-for result. The 
people had been heavily taxed by Henry, in prep¬ 
aration for the expected war. In consequence the 
men of Cornwall rose in rebellion. With Flammock, 
a lawyer, and Joseph, a blacksmith, at their head, 
they marched eastward through England until within 
-sight of London, being joined by Lord Audley and 
some other country gentlemen on their route. The 
king met and defeated them, though they fought 
fiorcely. Lord Audley was beheaded, Flammock 


( 


THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 


195 


and Joseph were hanged, the rest were pardoned. 
And so ended this threatening insurrection. 

It was of no advantage to the wandering White 
Rose. lie soon had to leave Scotland, peace having 
been made between the two kings. James, like 
Charles VIII. before him, was honorable and would 
not give him up, but required him to leave his king¬ 
dom. Perkin and his beautiful wife, who clung to 
him with true love, set sail for Ireland. For a third 
time he had been driven from shelter. 

In Ireland he found no support. The people had 
become friendly to the king, and would have nothing 
to do with the wandering White Rose. As a forlorn 
hope, he sailed for Cornwall, trusting that the stout 
Cornish men, who had just struck so fierce a blow 
for their rights, might gather to his support. With 
him went his wife, clinging with unyielding faith and 
love to his waning fortunes. 

He landed at Whitsand Bay, on the coast of Corn¬ 
wall, issued a proclamation under the title of Richard 
the Fourth of England, and quickly found himself 
in command of a small army of Cornishmen. His 
wife he left in the castle of St. Michael’s Mount, as 
a place of safety, and at the head of three thousand 
men marched into Devonshire. By the time he 
reached Exeter he had six thousand men under his 
command. They besieged Exeter, but learning that 
the king was on the march, they raised the siege, 
and advanced until Taunton was reached, when they 
found themselves in front of the king’s army. 

The Cornishmen were brave and ready. They 
were poorly armed and outnumbered, but battle was 


196 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


their only thought. Such was not the thought of 
their leader. For the first time in his career he found 
himself face to face with a hostile army. He could 
plot, could win friends by his engaging manners, 
could do anything but fight. But now that the 
critical moment had come he found that he lacked 
courage. Perhaps this had as much as compassion 
to do with his former retreat to Scotland. It is 
certain that the sight of grim faces and brandished 
arms before him robbed his heart of its bravery. 
Mounting a swift horse, he fled in the night, followed 
by about threescore others. In the morning his 
men found themselves without a leader. Having 
nothing to fight for, they surrendered. Some few of 
the more desperate of them were hanged. The 
others were pardoned and permitted to return. 

Ho sooner was the discovery made that the White 
Rose had taken to the winds than horsemen were 
sent in speedy pursuit, one troop being sent to St. 
Michael’s Mount to seize the Lady Catharine, and a 
second troop of five hundred horse to pursue the 
fugitive pretender, and take him, if possible, before 
he could reach the sanctuary of Beaulieu, in the 
Hew Forest, whither he had fled. The lady was 
quickly brought before the king. Whether or not he 
meant to deal harshly with her, the sight of her 
engaging face moved him to compassion and admira¬ 
tion. She was so beautiful, bore so high a reputa¬ 
tion for goodness, and was so lovingly devoted to 
her husband, that the king was disarmed of any ill 
purposes he may have entertained, and treated her 
with the highest respect and consideration. In the 


THE WHITE ROSE OE ENGLAND. 


197 


end he gave her an allowance suitable to her rank, 
placed her at court near the queen’s person, and 
continued her friend during life. Years after, when 
the story of Perkin Warbeck had almost become a 
nursery-tale, the Lady Catharine was still called by 
the people the “ White Pose,” as a tribute to her 
beauty and her romantic history. 

As regards the fugitive and his followers, they 
succeeded in reaching Beaulieu and taking sanc¬ 
tuary. The pursuers, who had failed to overtake 
them, could only surround the sanctuary and wait 
orders from the king. The astute Henry pursued 
his usual course, employing policy instead of force. 
Perkin was coaxed out of his retreat, on promise of 
good treatment if he should surrender, and was 
brought up to London, guarded, but not bound. 
Henry, who was curious to see him, contrived to do 
so from a window, screening himself while closely 
observing his rival. 

London reached, the cavalcade became a proces¬ 
sion, the captive being led through the principal 
streets for the edification of the populace, before 
being taken to the Tower. The king had little rea¬ 
son to fear him. The pretended prince, who had 
run away from his army, was not likely to obtain 
new adherents. Scorn and contempt were the only 
manifestations of popular opinion. 

So little, indeed, did Henry dread this aspirant to 
the throne, that he was quickly released from the 
Tower and brought to Westminster, where he was 
treated as a gentleman, being examined from time 
to time regarding his imposture. Such parts of his 

17* 


198 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


confession as the king saw fit to divulge were printed 
and spread through the country, but were of a nature 
not likely to settle the difficulty. “ Men missing of 
that they looked for, looked about for they knew 
not what, and were more in doubt than before, but 
the king chose rather not to satisfy, than to kindle 
coals.” 

Perkin soon brought the king’s complaisance to 
an end. His mercurial disposition counselled flight, 
and, deceiving his guards, he slipped from the palace 
and fled to the sea-shore. Here he found all avenues 
of escape closed, and so diligent was the pursuit that 
he quickly turned back, and again took sanctuary in 
Bethlehem priory, near Bichmond. The prior came 
to the king and off*ered to deliver him up, asking for 
his life only. His escapade had roused anger in the 
court. 

“ Take the rogue and hang him forthwith,” was 
the hot advice of the kind's council. 

“ The silly boy is not worth a rope,” answered the 
king. “ Take the knave and set him in the stocks. 
Let the people see what sort of a prince this is.” 

Life being promised, the prior brought forth his 
charge, and a few days after Perkin was set in the 
stocks for a whole day, in the palace-court at West¬ 
minster. The next day he was served in the same 
manner at Cheapside, in both places being forced to 
read a paper which purported to be a true and full 
confession of his imposture. From Cheapside he 
was taken to the Tower, having exhausted the mercy 
of the king. 

In the Tower he was placed in the company of 


THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND. 


199 


the Earl of Warwick, the last of the acknowledged 
Plantagenets, who had been in this gloomy prison 
for fourteen years. It is suspected that the king 
had a dark purpose in this. To the one he had 
promised life; the other he had no satisfactory rea¬ 
son to remove; possibly he fancied that the uneasy 
temper of Perkin would give him an excuse for the 
execution of both. 

If such was his scheme, it worked well. Perkin 
had not been long in the Tower before the quick¬ 
silver of his nature began to declare itself. Ilis in¬ 
sinuating address gained him the favor of his keep¬ 
ers, whom he soon began to offer lofty bribes to aid 
his escape. Into this plot he managed to draw the 
young earl. The plan devised was that the four 
keepers should murder the lieutenant of the Tower 
in the night, seize the keys and such money as they 
could find, and let out Perkin and the earl. 

It may be that the king himself had arranged 
this plot, and instructed the keepers in their parts. 
Certainly it was quickly divulged. And by strange 
chance, just at this period a third pretender appeared, 
this time a shoemaker’s son, who, like the baker’s 
son, pretended to be the Earl of Warwick. His 
name was Ralph Wilford. He had been taught his 
part by a priest named Patrick. They came from 
Suffolk and advanced into Kent, where the priest 
took to the pulpit to advocate the claims of his 
charge. Both were quickly taken, the youth exe¬ 
cuted, the priest imprisoned for life. 

And now Henry doubtless deemed that matters 
of this kind had gone far enough. The earl and his 


200 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


fellow-prisoner were indicted for conspiracy, tried 
and found guilty, the earl beheaded on Tower Hill, 
and Perkin Warbeck hanged at Tyburn. This was 
in the year 1499. It formed a dramatic end to the 
history of the fifteenth century, being the closing 
event in the wars of the White and the Ped Poses, 
the death of the last Plantagenet and of the last 
White Pose aspirant to the throne. 

In conclusion, the question may be asked, Who 
was Perkin W arbeck ? All we know of him is the 
story set afloat by Henry VII., made up of accounts 
told by his spies and a confession wrested from a 
boy threatened with death. That he was taught his 
part by Margaret of Burgundy we have only this 
evidence for warrant. He was publicly acknowl¬ 
edged by this lady, the sister of Edward IV., was 
married by James of Scotland to a lady of royal 
blood, was favorably received by many English 
lords, and at least a doubt remains whether he was 
not truly the princely person he declared himself. 
However that be, his story is a highly romantic one, 
and forms a picturesque closing scene to the long 
drama of the Wars of the Poses. 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF 

GOLD. 


It was the day fixed for the opening of the most 
brilliant pageant known to modern history. On the 
green space in front of the dilapidated castle of 
Guisnes, on the soil of France, but within what was 
known as the English pale, stood a summer palace 
of the amplest proportions and the most gorgeous 
decorations, which was furnished within with all 
that comfort demanded and art and luxury could 
provide. Let us briefly describe this magnificent 
palace, which had been prepared for the temporary 
residence of the English king. 

The building was of wood, square in shape, each 
side being three hundred and twenty-eight feet long. 
On every side were oriel-windows and curiously 
glazed clerestories, whose mullions and posts were 
overlaid with gold. In front of the grand entrance 
stood an embattled gate-way, having on each side 
statues of warriors in martial attitudes. From the 
gate to the palace sloped upward a long passage, 
flanked with images in bright armor and presenting 
“sore and terrible countenances.” This led to an 
embowered landing-place, where, faung the great 
doors, stood antique figures girt with olive-branches. 

201 


202 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Interiorly the palace halls and chambers were 
superbly decorated, white silk forming the ceilings 
of the passages and galleries, from which depended 
silken hangings of various colors and braided cloths, 
u which showed like bullions of fine braided gold.” 
Hoses set in lozenges, on a golden ground-work, 
formed the chamber ceilings. The wall spaces were 
decorated with richly carved and gilt panels, while 
embroidered silk tapestry hung from the windows 
and formed the walls of the corridors. In the state 
apartments the furniture was of princely richness, 
the whole domains of art and industry having been 
ransacked to provide their most splendid belongings. 
Exteriorly the building presented an equally ornate 
appearance, glass, gold-work, and ornamental hang¬ 
ings quite concealing the carpentry, so that “ every 
quarter of it, even the least, was a habitation fit for 
a prince.” 

To what end, in the now far-away year of 1520, 
and in that rural locality, under the shadows of a 
castle which had fallen into irredeemable ruin, had 
such an edifice been built,—one which only the 
revenues of a kingdom, in that day, could have 
erected? Its purpose was a worthy one. France 
and England, whose intercourse for centuries had 
been one of war, were now to meet in peace. Crecy 
and Agincourt had been the last meeting-places of 
the monarchs of these kingdoms, and death and ruin 
had followed their encounters. Now Henry the 
Eighth of England and Francis the First of France 
were to meet in peace and amity, spending the reve¬ 
nues of their kingdoms not for armor of linked mail 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTII OF GOLD. 


203 


and death-dealing weapons, but for splendid attire 
and richest pageantry, in token of friendship and 
fraternity between the two realms. 

A century had greatly changed the relations of 
England and France. In 1420 Ilenry Y. had re¬ 
cently won the great victory of Agincourt, and 
France lay almost prostrate at his feet. In 1520 the 
English possessions in France were confined to the 
seaport of Calais and a small district around it 
known as the “ English pale.” The castle of Guisnes 
stood just within the English border, the meeting 
between the two monarchs being fixed at the line of 
separation of the two kingdoms. 

The palace we have described, erected for the 
habitation of King Ilenry and his suite, had been 
designed and ordered by Cardinal Wolsey, to whose 
skill in pageantry the management of this great 
festival had been consigned. Extensive were the 
preparations alike in England and in France. All 
that the island kingdom could furnish of splendor 
and riches was provided, not alone for the adorn¬ 
ment of the king and his guard, but for the host of 
nobles and the multitude of persons of minor estate, 
who came in his train, the whole following of the 
king being nearly four thousand persons, while more 
than a thousand formed the escort of the queen. 
For the use of this great company had been brought 
nearly four thousand richly-caparisoned horses, with 
vast quantities of the other essentials of human 
comfort and regal display. 

While England had been thus busy in preparing 
for the pageant, France had been no less active. 


204 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Arde, a town near the English pale, had been selected 
as the dwelling-place of Francis and his train. As 
for the splendor of adornment of those who followed 
him, there seems to have been almost nothing worn 
but silks, velvets, cloth of gold and silver, jewels and 
precious stones, such being the costliness of the 
display that a writer who saw it humorously says, 
“ Many of the nobles carried their castles, woods, and 
farms upon their backs.” 

Magnificent as was the palace built for Henry and 
his train, the arrangements for the French king and 
his train were still more imposing. The artistic 
taste of the French was (ontrasted with the English 
love for solid grandeur. Francis had proposed that 
both parties should lodge in tents erected on the 
field, and in pursuance of this idea there had been 
prepared “ numerous pavilions, fitted up with halls, 
galleries, and chambers ornamented within and with¬ 
out with gold and silver tissue. Amidst golden balls 
and quaint devices glittering in the sun, rose a gilt 
figure of St. Michael, conspicuous for his blue mantle 
powdered with golden fleurs-de-lis , and crowning a 
royal pavilion of vast dimensions supported by a 
single mast. In his right hand he held a dart, in 
his left a shield emblazoned with the arms of France. 
Inside, the roof of the pavilion represented the 
canopy of heaven ornamented with stars and figures 
of the zodiac. The lodgings of the queen, of the 
Duchess d’Alen^on, the king’s favorite sister, and of 
other ladies and princes of the blood, were covered 
with cloth of gold. The rest of the tents, to the 
number of three or four hundred, emblazoned with 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 205 

the arms of their owners, were pitched on the banks 
of a small river outside the city walls.” 

No less abundant provision had been made for the 
residence of the English visitors. When King Henry 
looked from the oriel windows of his fairy palace, 
he saw before him a scene of the greatest splendor 
and the most incessant activity. The green space 
stretching southward from the castle was covered 
with tents of all shapes and sizes, many of them 
brilliant with emblazonry, while from their tops 
floated rich-colored banners and pennons in profusion. 
Before each tent stood a sentry, his lance-point glit¬ 
tering like a jewel in the rays of the June sun. Here 
richly-caparisoned horses were prancing, there Sump¬ 
ter mules laden with supplies, and decorated with 
ribbons and flowers, made their slow way onward. 
Everywhere was movement, everywhere seemed glad¬ 
ness ; merriment ruled supreme, the hilarity being 
doubtless heightened by frequent visits to gilded 
fountains, which spouted forth claret and hypocras 
into silver cups from which all might drink. Never 
had been seen such a picture in such a place. The 
splendor of color and decoration of the tents, the 
shining armor and gorgeous dresses of knights and 
nobles, the brilliancy of the military display, the 
glittering and gleaming effect of the pageant as a 
whole, rendering fitly applicable the name by which 
this royal festival has since been known, “ The Field 
of the Cloth of Gold.” 

Two leagues separated Ardes and Guisnes, two 
leagues throughout which the spectacle extended, 
rich tents and glittering emblazonry occupying the 

18 


206 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


whole sj>ace, the canvas habitations of the two nations 
meeting at the dividing-line between England and 
France. It was a splendid avenue arranged for the 
movements of the monarchs of these two great king¬ 
doms. 

Such was the scene : what were the ceremonies ? 
They began with a grand procession, headed by 
Cardinal Wolsey, who, as representative of the king 
of England, made the first move in the game of os 
tentation. Before him rode fifty gentlemen, each 
wearing a great gold chain, while their horses were 
richly caparisoned with crimson velvet. His ushers, 
fifty other gentlemen, followed, bearing maces of 
gold which at one end were as large as a man’s head. 
Next came a dignitary in crimson velvet, proudly 
carrying the cardinal’s cross of gold, adorned with 
a crucifix of precious stones. Four lackeys, attired 
in cloth of gold and with magnificent plumed bonnets 
in their hands, followed. Then came the cardinal 
himself, man and horse splendidly equipped, his strong 
and resolute face full of the pride and arrogance 
which marked his character, his bearing that of 
almost regal ostentation. After him followed an 
array of bishops and other churchmen, while a hun¬ 
dred archers of the king’s guard completed the pro¬ 
cession. 

Beaching Arde, the cardinal dismounted in front 
of the royal tent, and, in the stateliest manner, did 
homage in his master’s name to Francis, who received 
him with a courteous display of deference and affec¬ 
tion. The next day the representatives of France 
returned this visit, with equal pomp and parade, and 



HENRY THE EIGHTH 







THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


207 


with as kindly a reception from IXenry, while the 
English nobles feasted those of France in their lord¬ 
liest fashion, so boisterous being their hospitality 
that they fairly forced their visitors into their tents. 

These ceremonial preliminaries passed, the meet¬ 
ing of the two sovereigns came next in order. Henry 
had crossed the channel to greet Francis; Francis 
agreed to be the first to cross the frontier to greet 
him. June 7 was the day fixed. On this day the 
king of France left his tent amid the roar of cannon, 
and, followed by a noble retinue in cloth of gold and 
silver, made his way to the frontier, where was set 
up a gorgeous pavilion, in whose decorations the her¬ 
aldries of England and France were commingled. In 
this handsome tent the two monarchs were to confer. 

About the same time Henry set out, riding a 
powerful stallion, nobly caparisoned. At the border¬ 
line between English and French territory the two 
monarchs halted, facing each other, each still on his 
own soil. Deep silence prevailed in the trains, and 
every eye was fixed on the two central figures. 

They were strongly contrasted. Francis was tall 
but rather slight in figure, and of delicate features. 
Henry was stout of form, and massive but handsome 
of face. He had not yet attained those swollen pro¬ 
portions of face and figure in which history usually 
depicts him. Their attire was as splendid as art and 
fashion could produce. Francis was dressed in a 
mantle of cloth of gold, which fell over a jewelled 
cassock of gold frieze. He wore a bonnet of ruby 
velvet enriched with gems, while the front and 
sleeves of his mantle were splendid with diamonds. 


208 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


rubies, emeralds, and “ ropes of pearls.” He rode a 
“beautiful horse covered with goldsmith’s work.” 

Henry was dressed in cloth of silver damask, 
studded with gems, and ribbed with gold cloth, while 
his horse was gay with trappings of gold embroidery 
and mosaic work. Altogether the two men were as 
splendid in appearance as gold, silver, jewelry, and 
the costliest tissues could make them,—and as differ¬ 
ent in personal appearance as two men of the same 
race could well be. 

The occasion was not alone a notable one, it was 
to some extent a critical one. For centuries the 
meetings of French and English kings had been 
hostile; could they now be trusted to be peaceful ? 
Might not the sword of the past be hidden in the 
olive-branch of the present? Suppose the lords of 
France should seize and hold captive the English 
king, or the English lords act with like treachery 
towards the French king, what years of the outpouring 
of blood and treasure might follow! Apprehensions 
of such treachery were not wanting. The followers 
of Francis looked with doubt on the armed men in 
Henry’s escort. The English courtiers in like man¬ 
ner viewed with eyes of question the archers and 
cavaliers in the train of Francis. Lord Abergavenny 
ran to King Henry as he was about to mount for the 
ride to the French frontier. 

“Sire,” be said, anxiously, “ye be my lord and 
sovereign ; wherefore, above all, I am bound to show 
you the truth and not be let for none. I have been 
in the French party, and they be more in number,—- 
double so many as ye be.” 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


209 


“ Sire,” answered Lord Shrewsbury, “ whatever 
my lord of Abergavenny sayeth, I myself have been 
there, and the Frenchmen be more in fear of you 
and your subjects than your subjects be of them. 
Wherefore, if I were worthy to give counsel, your 
grace should march forward.” 

Bluff King Harry had no thought of doing any¬ 
thing else. The doubt which shook the souls of some 
of his followers, did not enter his. 

“ So we intend, my lord,” he briefly answered, and 
rode forward. 

For a moment the two kings remained face to face, 
gazing upon one another in silence. Then came a 
burst of music, and, spurring their horses, they gal¬ 
loped forward, and in an instant were hand in hand. 
Three times they embraced ; then, dismounting, they 
acrain embraced, and walked arm in arm towards the 
pavilion. Brief was the conference within, the con¬ 
stables of France and England keeping strict ward 
outside, with swords held at salute. Hot till the 
monarchs emerged was the restraint broken. Then 
Henry and Francis were presented to the dignitaries 
of the opposite nation, their escorts fraternized, 
barrels of wine were broached, and as the wine-cups 
were drained the toast, “ Good friends, French and 
English,” was cheerily repeated from both sides. Ti 
nobles were emulated in this by their followers, am 
the good fellowship of the meeting was signalizes 
by abundant revelry, night only ending the merry¬ 
making. 

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday passed in exchange 
of courtesies, and in preparations for the tournament 

18 * 


II.—o 


210 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


which was to be the great event of the occasion. On 
Sunday afternoon Henry crossed the frontier to do 
homage to the queen of France, and Francis offered 
the same tribute to the English queen. Henry rode 
to Arde in a dress that was heavy with gold and 
jewels, and was met by the queen and her ladies, 
whose beauty was adorned with the richest gems 
and tissues and the rarest laces that the wealth and 
taste of the time could command. The principal 
event of the reception was a magnificent dinner, 
whose service was so rich and its viands so rare and 
costly that the chronicler confesses himself unequal 
to the task of describing it. Music, song, and 
dancing filled up the intervals between the courses, 
and all went merrily until five o’clock, when Henry 
took his leave, entertaining the ladies as he did so 
with an exhibition of his horsemanship, he making 
his steed to “ bound and curvet as valiantly as man 
could do.” On his road home he met Francis, re¬ 
turning from a like reception by the queen of Eng¬ 
land. “ What cheer ?” asked the two kings as they 
cordially embraced, with such a show of amity that 
one might have supposed them brothers born. 

The next day was that set for the opening cf the 
tournament. This was to be held in a park on the 
high ground between Arde and Guisnes. On each 
side of the enclosed space long galleries, hung with 
tapestry, were erected for the spectators, a specially- 
adorned box being prepared for the two queens. Tri¬ 
umphal arches marked each entrance to the lists, at 
which stood French and English archers on guard. 
At the foot of the lists was erected the “tree of 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 211 

noblesse,” on which were to be bung the shields of 
those about to engage in combat. It bore “ the noble 
thorn [the sign of Henry] entwined with raspberry” 
[the sign of Francis] ; around its trunk was wound 
cloth of gold and green damask; its leaves were 
formed of green silk, and the fruit that hung from 
its limbs was made of silver and Yenetian gold. 

Henry and Francis, each supported by some eigh¬ 
teen of their noblest subjects, designed to hold the 
lists against all comers, it being, however, strictly 
enjoined that sharp-pointed weapons should not be 
used, lest serious accidents, as in times past, might 
take place. Various other rules were made, of which 
we shall only name that which required the challenger 
who was worsted in any combat to give “ a gold token 
to the lady in whose cause the comer fights.” 

Shall we tell the tale of this show of mimic war ? 
Splendid it was, and, unlike the tournaments of an 
oldpr date, harmless. The lists were nine hundred 
feet long and three hundred and twenty broad, the 
galleries bordering them being magnificent with their 
hosts of richly-attired lords and ladies and the vari¬ 
colored dresses of the archers and others of lesser 
blood. For two days, Monday and Thursday, Henry 
and Francis held the lists. In this sport Henry dis¬ 
played the skill and prowess of a true warrior. 
Francis could scarcely wield the swords which his 
brother king swept in circles around his head. When 
he spurred, with couched lance, upon an antagonist, 
his ease and grace aroused the plaudits of the spec¬ 
tators, which became enthusiastic as saddle after 
saddle was emptied by the vigor of his thrust. 


212 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Next to Henry in strength and prowess was 
Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who vied with 
the king for the honors of the field. “ The king of 
England and Suffolk did marvels,” says the chron¬ 
icler. On the days when the monarchs did not 
appear in the field lesser knights strove for the hon¬ 
ors of the joust, wrestling-matches helped to amuse 
the multitude of spectators, and the antics of mum¬ 
mers wound up the sports of the day. Only once did 
Henry and Francis come into friendly contest. This 
was in a wrestling-match, from which the French 
king, to the surprise of the spectators, carried off 
the honors. By a clever twist of the wrestler’s art, 
he managed to throw his burly brother king. Henry’s 
face was red with the hot Tudor blood when he 
rose, his temper had been lost in his fall, and there 
was anger in the tone in which he demanded a re¬ 
newal of the contest. But Francis was too wise to 
fan a triumph into a quarrel, and by mild words suc¬ 
ceeded in smoothing the frown from Henry’s brow. 

For some two weeks these entertainments lasted, 
the genial June sun shining auspiciously upon the 
lists. From the galleries shone two minor lumina¬ 
ries, the queens of England and France, who were 
always present, “with their ladies richly dressed in 
jewels, and with many chariots, litters, and hackneys 
covered with cloth of gold and silver, and emblazoned 
with their arms.” They occupied a glazed gallery 
hung with tapestry, where they were often seen in 
conversation, a pleasure not so readily enjoyed by 
their ladies in waiting, most of whom had to do their 
talking through the vexatious aid of an interpreter. 


THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD. 


213 


During most of the time through which the tour¬ 
nament extended the distrust of treachery on one 
side or the other continued. Francis never entered 
the English pale unless Henry was on French soil. 
Henry was similarly distrustful. Or, rather, the 
distrust lay in the advisers of the monarchs, and as 
the days went on grew somewhat offensive. Francis 
was the first to break it, and to show his confidence 
in the good faith of his brother monarch. One 
morning early he crossed the frontier and entered 
the palace at Guisnes while Henry was still in bed, 
or, as some say, was at breakfast. To the guards at 
the gate he playfully said, “ Surrender your arms, 
you are all my prisoners; and now conduct me to 
my brother of England.” He accosted Henry with 
the utmost cordiality, embracing him and saying, in 
a merry tone,— 

“ Here you see I am your prisoner.” 

“My brother,” cried Henry, with the warmest 
pleasure, “you have played me the most agreeable 
trick in the world, and have showed me the full 
confidence I may place in you. I surrender myself 
your prisoner from this moment.” 

Costly presents passed between the two monarchs, 
and from that moment all restraint was at an end. 
Each rode to see the other when he chose, their 
attendants minHed with the same freedom and con- 

O 

fidence, and during the whole time not a quarrel, or 
even a dispute, arose between the sons of England 
and France. In the lists they used spear and sword 
with freedom, but out of them they were the warmest 
of friends. 


214 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


On Sunday, June 24, the tournament closed with 
a solemn mass sung by Wolsey, who was assisted by 
the ecclesiastics of the two lands. When the gospels 
were presented to the two kings to kiss, there was a 
friendly contest as to who should precede. And at 
the Agnus Dei , when the Pax was presented to the 
two queens, a like contest arose, which ended in their 
kissing each other in lieu of the sacred emblem. 

At the close of the services a showy piece of fire¬ 
works attracted the attention of the spectators. 
“ There appeared in the air from Arde a great arti¬ 
ficial salamander or dragon, four fathoms long and 
full of fire; many were frightened, thinking it a 
comet or some monster, as they could see nothing 
to which it was attached: it passed right over the 
chapel to Guisnes as fast as a footman can go, and 
as high as a bolt from a cross-bow.” A splendid 
banquet followed, which concluded the festivities of 
the “ Field of the Cloth of Gold.” The two kings 
entered the lists again, but now only to exchange 
farewells. Henry made his way to Calais; Francis 
returned to Abbeyville: the great occasion was at 
an end. 

What was its result? Amity between the two 
nations; a century of peace and friendship ? Hot so. 
In a month Henry had secretly allied himself to 
Charles the Fifth against Francis of France. In five 
years was fought the battle of Pavia, between France 
and the Emperor Charles, in which Francis, aftei 
showing great valor on the field, was taken prisoner. 
“ All is lost, except honor,” he wrote. Such was the 
sequel of the “ Field of the Cloth of Gold.” 


THE STORY OF ARABELLA 

STUART. 


Of royal blood was the lady here named, near to 
the English throne. Too near, as it proved, for her 
own comfort and happiness, for her life was dis¬ 
tracted by the fears of those that filled it. Her 
story, in consequence, became one of the romances 
of English history. 

“ The Lady Arabella,” as she was called, was nearly 
related to Queen Elizabeth, and became an object of 
jealous persecution by that royal lady. The great 
Elizabeth had in her disposition something of the 
dog in the manger. She would not marry herself, 
and thus provide for the succession to the throne, 
and she was determined that the fair Arabella should 
not perform this neglected duty. Hence Arabella’s 
misery. 

The first thing we hear of this unfortunate scion 
of royal blood concerns a marriage. The whole story 
of her life, in fact, is concerned with marriage, and 
its fatal ending was the result of marriage. Never 
had a woman been more sought in marriage; never 
more hindered; her life was a tragedy of marriage. 

Her earlier story may be briefly given. James VI. 
of Scotland, cousin of the Lady Arabella, chose as a 

215 


216 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


husband for her another cousin, Lord Esme Stuart, 
Luke of Lennox, his proposed heir. The match was 
a desirable one, but Queen Elizabeth forbade the 
banns. She threw the lady into a prison, and defied 
King James when he demanded her delivery, not 
hesitating to speak with contempt of her brother 
monarch. 

The next to choose a husband for Arabella was 
the pope, who would have been delighted to pro¬ 
vide a Catholic for the succession to the English 
throne. A prince of the house of Savoy was the 
choice of his holiness. The Luke of Parma was mar¬ 
ried, and his brother was a cardinal, and therefore 
unmarriageable, but the pope was not to be defeated 
by any such little difficulty as that. He secularized 
the churchman, and made him an eligible aspirant 
for the lady’s hand. But, as may well be supposed, 
Elizabeth decisively vetoed this chimerical plan. 

To escape from the plots of scheming politicians, 
the Lady Arabella now took the task in her own 
hand, proposing to marry a son of the Earl of North¬ 
umberland. Unhappily, Elizabeth would none of it. 
To her jealous fancy an English earl was more dan¬ 
gerous than a Scotch duke. Thus went on this ex¬ 
traordinary business till Elizabeth died, and King 
James of Scotland, whom she had despised, became 
her successor on the throne, she having paved the 
way to his succession by her neglect to provide an 
heir for it herself, and her insensate determination 
to prevent Arabella Stuart from doing so. 

James was now king. He had chosen a husband 
for his cousin Arabella before. It was a natural pre- 


THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART. 217 

sumption that he would not object to her marriage 
now. But if Eiizabeth was jealous, he was suspi¬ 
cious. A foolish plot was made by some unimpor¬ 
tant individuals to get rid of the Scottish king and 
place Arabella on the English throne. A letter to 
this effect was sent to the lady. She laughed at it, 
and sent it to the king, who, probably, did not con¬ 
sider it a laughing-matter. 

This was in 1603. In 1604 the king of Poland is 
said to have asked for the lady's hand in marriage. 
Count Maurice, Duke of Gruildres, was also spoken 
of as a suitable match. But James had grown as 
obdurate as Elizabeth,—and with as little sense and 
reason. The lady might enjoy life in single blessed¬ 
ness as she pleased, but marry she should not. “ Thus 
far to the Lady Arabella crowns and husbands were 
like a fairy banquet seen at moonlight opening on 
her sight, impalpable, and vanishing at the moment 
of approach.” 

Several years now passed, in which the lady lived 
as a dependant on the king’s bounty, and in which, 
so far as we know, no thoughts of marriage were 
entertained. At least, no projects of marriage were 
made public, whatever may have been the lady’s 
secret thoughts and wishes. Then came the roman¬ 
tic event of her life,—a marriage, and its striking 
consequences. It is this event which has made her 
name remembered in the romance of history. 

Christmas of 1608 had passed, and the Lady Ara¬ 
bella was still unmarried; the English crown had 
not tottered to its fall through the entrance of this 
fair maiden into the bonds of matrimony. The year 

19 


K 


218 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


1609 began, and terror seized the English court; 
this insatiable woman was reaching out for another 
husband! This time the favored swain was Mr. Wil¬ 
liam Seymour, the second son of Lord Beauchamp, 
and grandson of the earl of Hertford. He was a man 
of admired character, a studious scholar in times of 
peace, an ardent soldier in times of war. He and 
Arabella had known each other from childhood. 

In February the daring rebellion of the Lady 
Arabella became known, and sent its shaft of terror 
to the heart of King James. The woman was at it 
again, wanting to marry; she must be dealt with. 
She and Seymour were summoned before the privy 
council and sharply questioned. Seymour was 
harshly censured. How dared he presume to seek 
an alliance with one of royal blood, he was asked, in 
blind disregard of the fact that royal blood ran in 
his own veins. 

He showed fitting humility before the council, 
pleading that he meant no offence. Thus he told 
the dignified councillors the story of his wooing,— 

“I boldly intruded myself into her ladyship’s 
chamber in this court on Candlemas-day last, at 
which time I imparted my desire unto her, which 
was entertained, but with this caution on either 
part, that both of us resolved not to proceed to any 
final conclusion without his Majesty’s most gracious 
favor first obtained. And this was our first meeting. 

O 

After this we had a second meeting at Briggs’s house 
in Fleet Street, and then a third at Mr. Baynton’s; 
at both of which we had the like conference and 
resolution as before.” 


THE STOIIY OF ARABELLA STUART. 219 

Neither of them would think of marrying without 
“his Majesty’s most gracious favor,” they declared. 
This favor could not be granted. The safety of the 
English crown had to be considered. The lovers 
were admonished by the privy council and dismissed. 

But love laughs at privy councils, as well as at 
locksmiths. This time the Lady Arabella was not 
to be hindered. She and Seymour were secretly mar¬ 
ried, without regard to “ his Majesty’s most gracious 
favor,” and enjoyed a short period of connubial bliss 
in defiance of king and council. 

Their offence was not discovered till July of the 
following year. It roused a small convulsion in 
court circles. The king had been defied. The cul¬ 
prits must be punished. The lovers—for they were 
still lovers—were separated, Seymour being sent to 
the Tower, for “ his contempt in marrying a lady of 
the royal family without the king’s leave j” the lady 
being confined at the house of Sir Thomas Parry, at 
Lambeth. 

Their confinement was not rigorous. The lady was 
allowed to walk in the garden. The gentleman was 
given the freedom of the Tower. Letters seem to 
have passed between them. From one of these an¬ 
cient love-letters we may quote the affectionate con¬ 
clusion. Seymour had taken cold. Arabella writes: 

“I do assure you that nothing the State can do 
with me can trouble me so much as this news of your 
being ill doth; and, you see, when I am troubled I 
trouble you with too tedious kindness, for so I think 
you will account so long a letter, yourself not having 


220 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


written to me this good while so much as how you 
do. But, sweet sir, I speak not of this to trouble 
you with writing but when you please. Be well, 
and I shall account myself happy in being 

“ Your faithful, loving wife. Arb. S.” 

They wrote too much, it seems. Their corre¬ 
spondence was discovered. Trouble ensued. The king 
determined to place the lady in closer confinement 
under the bishop of Durham. 

Arabella was in despair when this news was brought 
her. She grew so ill from her depression of spirits that 
she could only travel to her new place of detention in 
a litter and under the care of a physician. On reaching 
Highgate she had become unfit to proceed, her pulse 
weak, her countenance pale and wan. The doctor left 
her there and returned to town, where he reported to 
the king that the lady was too sick to travel. 

“ She shall proceed to Durham if I am king,” an¬ 
swered James, with his usual weak-headed obstinacy. 

“I make no doubt of her obedience,” answered 
the doctor. 

“ Obedience is what I require,” replied the king. 
“ That given, I will do more for her than she ex¬ 
pects.” 

He consented, in the end, that she should remain 
a month at Highgate, under confinement, at the end 
of which time she should proceed to Durham. The 
month passed. She wrote a letter to the king 
which procured her a second month’s respite. But 
that time, too, passed on, and the day fixed for her 
further journey approached. 


THE STORY OP ARABELLA STUART. 


221 


The lady now showed none of the wild grief which 
she had at first displayed. She was resigned to her 
fate, she said, and manifested a tender sorrow which 
won the hearts of her keepers, who could not but 
sympathize with a high-born lady thus persecuted 
for what was assuredly no crime, if even a fault. 

At heart, however she was by no means so tran¬ 
quil as she seemed. Her communications with Sey¬ 
mour had secretly continued, and the two had 
planned a wildly romantic project of escape, of which 
this seeming resignation was but part. The day pre¬ 
ceding that fixed for her departure arrived. The 
lady had persuaded an attendant to aid her in pay¬ 
ing a last visit to her husband, whom she declared 
she must see before going to her distant prison. She 
would return at a fixed hour. The attendant could 
wait for her at an appointed place. 

This credulous servant, led astray, doubtless, by 
sympathy with the loving couple, not only consented 
to the request, but assisted the lady in assuming an 
elaborate disguise. 

“ She drew,” we are told, “ a pair of large French- 
fashioned hose or trousers over her petticoats, put 
on a man’s doublet or coat, a peruke such as men 
wore, whose long locks covered her own ringlets, a 
black hat, a black coat, russet boots with red tops, 
and a rapier by her side. Thus accoutred, the Lady 
Arabella stole out with a gentleman about three 
o’clock in the afternoon. She had only proceeded a 
mile and a half when they stopped at a post-inn, 
where one of her confederates was waiting with 
horses j yet she was so sick and faint that the hostler 

19 * 


222 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


who held her stirrup observed that the gentleman 
could hardly hold out to London.” 

But the “gentleman” grew stronger as she pro¬ 
ceeded. The exercise of riding gave her new spirit. 
Her pale face grew rosy; her strength increased; 
by six o’clock she reached Blackwall, where a boat 
and servants were waiting. The plot had been well 
devised and all the necessary preparations made. 

The boatmen were bidden to row to Woolwich. 
This point reached, they were asked to proceed to 
Gravesend. Then they rowed on to Tilbury. By 
this time they were fatigued, and landed for rest 
and refreshment. But the desired goal had not yet 
been reached, and an offer of higher pay induced 
them to push on to Lee. 

Here the fugitive lady rested till daybreak. The 
light of morn discovered a French vessel at anchor 
off the harbor, which was quickly boarded. It had 
been provided for the escape of the lovers. But 
Seymour, who had planned to escape from the Tower 
and meet her here, had not arrived. Arabella was 
desirous that the vessel should continue at anchor 
until he appeared. If he should fail to come she 
did not care to proceed. The land that held her 
lord was the land in which she wished to dwell, even 
if they should be parted by fate and forced to live 
asunder. 

This view did not please those who were aiding 
her escape. They would be pursued, and might be 
overtaken. Belay was dangerous. In disregard of 
her wishes, they ordered the captain to put to sea. 
As events turned out, their haste proved unfortunate 


TIIE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART. 


223 


for the fair fugitive, and the “cause of woes un 
numbered” to the loving pair. 

Leaving her to her journey, we must return to the 
adventures of Seymour. Prisoner at large, as he 
was, in the Tower, escape proved not difficult. A 
cart had entered the enclosure to bring wood to his 
apartment. On its departure he followed it through 
the gates, unobserved by the warder. His servant 
was left behind, with orders to keep all visitors from 
the room, ou pretence that his master was laid up 
with a rac-ino* toothache. 

Eeaching the river, the escaped prisoner found a 
man in his confidence in waiting with a boat. Ho 
was rowed down the stream to Lee, where he ex¬ 
pected to find his Arabella in waiting. She was not 
there, but in the distance was a vessel which he 
fancied might have her on board. He hired a fisher¬ 
man to take him out. Hailing the vessel, he inquired 
its name, and to his grief learned that it was not the 
French ship which had been hired for the lovers’ 
flight. Fate had separated them. Filled with de¬ 
spair, he took passage on a vessel from Newcastle, 
whose captain was induced, for a fair consideration, 
to alter his course. In due time he landed in Flan¬ 
ders, free, but alone. He was never to set eyes on 
Arabella Stuart again. 

Meanwhile, the escape of the lady from Highgate 
had become known, and had aroused almost as much 
alarm as if some frightful calamity had overtaken 
the State. Confusion and alarm pervaded the court. 
The Gunpowder Plot itself hardly shook up the gray 
heads of King James’s cabinet more than did the 


224 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


flight of this pair of parted doves. The wind seemed 
to waft peril. The minutes seemed fraught with 
threats. Couriers were despatched in all haste to 
the neighboring seaports, and hurry everywhere pre¬ 
vailed. 

A messenger was sent to the Tower, bidding the 
lieutenant to guard Seymour with double vigilance. 
To the surprise of the worthy lieutenant, he dis¬ 
covered that Seymour was not there to be guarded. 
The bird had flown. Word of this threw King 
James into a ludicrous state of terror. ITe wished 
to issue a vindictive proclamation, full of hot ful- 
minations, and could scarcely be persuaded by his 
minister to tone down his foolish utterances. The re¬ 
vised edict was sent off with as much speed as if an 
enemy’s fleet were in the offing, the courier being 
urged to his utmost despatch, the postmasters aroused 
to activity by the stirring superscription, “ Haste, 
haste, post-haste! Haste for your life, your life!” 
One might have thought that a new Norman inva¬ 
sion was threatening the coast, instead of a pair of 
new-married lovers flying to finish their honey-moon 
in peace and freedom abroad. 

When news of what had happened reached the 
family of the Seymours, it threw them into a state 
of alarm not less than that of the king. They knew 
what it meant to offend the crown. The progenitor 
of the family, the Duke of Somerset, had lost his head 
through some offence to a king, and his descendants 
had no ambition to be similarly curtailed of their 
natural proportions. Francis Seymour wrote to his 
uncle, the Earl of Hertford, then distant from London. 


THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART. 


225 


telling the story of the flight of his brother and the 
lady. This letter still exists, and its appearance 
indicates the terror into which it threw the earl. 
It reached him at midnight. With it came a summons 
to attend the privy council. He read it apparently 

the light of a taper, and with such agitation that 
the sheet caught fire. The scorched letter still exists, 
and is burnt through at the most critical part of its 
story. The poor old earl learned enough to double 
his terror, and lost the section that would have alle¬ 
viated it. He hastened up to London in a state of 
doubt and fear, not knowing but that he was about 
to be indicted for high treason. 

Meanwhile, what had become of the disconsolate 
Lady Arabella ? The poor bride found herself alone 
upon the seas, mourning for her lost Seymour, im¬ 
ploring her attendants to delay, straining her eyes 
in hopes of seeing some boat bearing to her him she 
so dearly loved. It was in vain. Ho Seymour ap¬ 
peared. And the delay in her flight proved fatal. 
The French ship which bore her was overtaken in 
Calais roads by one of the king’s vessels which had 
been so hastily despatched in pursuit, and the lady 
was taken on board and brought back, protesting 
that she cared not what became of her if her dear 
Seymour should only escape. 

The story ends mournfully. The sad-hearted 
bride was consigned to an imprisonment that preyed 
heavily upon her. Never very strong, her sorrow and 
depression of spirits reduced her powers, while, with 
the hope that she might die the sooner, she refused 
the aid of physicians. Grief, despair, intense emo- 

ii .—p 


226 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


tion, in time impaired her reason, and at the end of 
four years of prison life she died, her mind having 
died before. Barely has a simple and innocent 
marriage produced such sad results through the 
uncalled-for jealousy of kings. The sad romance of 
the poor Lady Arabella’s life was due to the fact that 
she had an unreasonable woman to deal with in 
Elizabeth, and a suspicious fool in James. Sound 
common-sense must say that neither had aught to 
gain from their persecution of the poor lady, whom 
they were so obstinately determined should end life 
a maid. 

Seymour spent some years abroad, and then was 
permitted to return to England. His wife was dead; 
the king had naught to fear. He lived through 
three successive reigns, distinguishing himself by 
his loyalty to James and his two successors, and to 
the day of his death retaining his warm atfection 
for his first love. He married again, and to the 
daughter born from this match he gave the name 
of Arabella Stuart, in token of his undying attach¬ 
ment to the lady of his life’s romance. 


LOVE’S KNIGHT-ERRANT. 


On the 18th of February, 1623, two young men, 
Tom and John Smith by name, plainly dressed and 
attended by one companion in the attire of an upper- 
servant, rode to the ferry at Gravesend, on the 
Thames. They wore heavy beards, which did not 
look altogether natural, and had pulled their hats 
well down over their foreheads, as if to hide their 
faces from prying eyes. They seemed a cross be¬ 
tween disguised highwaymen and disguised noble¬ 
men. 

The ancient ferryman looked at them with some 
suspicion as they entered his boat, asking himself, 
“ What lark is afoot with these young bloods ? 
There’s mischief lurking under those beards.” 

His suspicions were redoubled when his passengers, 
in arbitrary tones, bade him put them ashore below 
the town, instead of at the usual landing-place. And 
he became sure that they were great folks bent on 
mischief when, on landing, one of them handed him 
a gold piece for his fare, and rode away without 
asking for change. 

“ Aha! my brisk lads, I have you now,” he said, 
with a chuckle. “ There’s a duel afoot. Those two 
youngsters are off for the other side of the Channel, 

227 


228 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


to let out some angry blood, and the other goes 
along as second or surgeon. It’s very neat, but the 
law says nay; and I know my duty. I am not to be 
bought off with a piece of gold.” 

Pocketing his golden fare, he hastened to the nearest 
magistrate, and told his story and his suspicion. 
The magistrate agreed with him, and at once de¬ 
spatched a post-boy to Eochester, with orders to have 
the doubtful travellers stopped. Away rode the mes¬ 
senger at haste, on one of the freshest horses to be 
found in Gravesend stables. But his steed was no 
match for the thoroughbreds of the suspected way¬ 
farers, and they had left the ancient town of Eochester 
in the rear long before he reached its skirts. 

Eochester passed, they rode briskly onward, con¬ 
versing with the gay freedom of frolicsome youth ; 
when, much to their alarm as it seemed, they saw in 
the road before them a stately train. It consisted 
of a carriage that appeared royal in its decorations 
and in the glittering trappings of its horses, beside 
which rode two men dressed like noblemen, following 
whom came a goodly retinue of attendants. 

The young wayfarers seemed to recognize the trav¬ 
ellers, and drew up to a quick halt, as if in alarm. 

“Lewknor and Mainwaring, by all that’s unlucky!” 
said the one known as Tom Smith. 

“ And a carriage-load of Spanish high mightiness 
between them; for that’s the ambassador on his way 
to court,” answered John Smith. “It’s all up with 
our escapade if they get their eyes on us. We must 
bolt.” 

“ How, and whither ?” 


love’s knight errant. 


229 


“ Over the hedge and far away.” 

Spurring their horses, they broke through the low 
hedge that bordered the road-side, and galloped at a 
rapid pace across the fields beyond. The approaching 
party viewed this movement with lively suspicion. 

“Who can they be?” queried Sir Lewis Lewknor, 
one of the noblemen. 

His companion, who was no less a personage than 
Sir Henry Mainwaring, lieutenant of Dover Castle, 
looked questioningly after the fugitives. 

“ They are well mounted and have the start on us. 
We cannot overtake them,” he muttered. 

“ You know them, then ?” asked Lewknor. 

“ I have my doubt that two of them are the young 
Barneveldts, who have just tried to murder the 
Prince of Orange. They must be stopped and ques¬ 
tioned.” 

He turned and bade one of his followers to rido 
back with all speed to Canterbury, and bid the 
magistrates to detain three suspicious travellers, who 
would soon reach that town. This done, the train 
moved on, Mainwaring satisfied that he had checked 
the runaways, whoever they were. 

The Smiths and their attendant reached Canter¬ 
bury in good time, but this time they were outridden. 
Mainwaring’s messenger had got in before them, 
and the young adventurers found themselves stopped 
by a mounted guard, with the unwelcome tidings 
that his honor, the mayor, would like to see them. 

Being brought before his honor, they blustered a 
little, talked in big tones of the rights of English¬ 
men, and asked angrily who had dared order their 

20 


230 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


detention. They found master mayor cool and de- 
oided. 

“ Gentlemen, you will stay here till I know better 
who you are,” he said. “Sir Henry Main waring 
has ordered you to be stopped, and he best knows 
why. Hor do I fancy he has gone amiss, for your 
names of Tom and John Smith fit you about as well 
as your beards.” 

At these words, the one that claimed the name of 
John Smith burst into a hearty laugh. Seizing his 
beard, he gave it a slight jerk, and it came off in his 
hand. The mayor started in surprise. The face 
before him was one that he very well knew. 

“The Marquis of Buckingham!” he exclaimed. 

“The same, at your service,” said Buckingham, 
still laughing. “ Main waring takes me for other 
than I am. Likely enough he deems me a runaway 
road-agent. You will scarcely stop the lord admiral, 
going in disguise to Dover to make a secret inspec¬ 
tion of the fleet ?” 

“ Why, that certainly changes the case,” said the 
mayor. “ But who is your companion ?” he con¬ 
tinued, in a low tone, looking askance at the other. 

“A young gallant of the court, who keeps me 
company,” said Buckingham, carelessly. 

“ The road is free before you, gentlemen,” said the 
mayor, graciously. “ I will answer to Mainwaring.” 

He turned and bade his guards to deliver their 
horses to the travellers. But his eyes followed them 
with a peculiar twinkle as they left the room. 

“A young gallant of the court!” he muttered. 
“I have seen that gallant before. Well, well, what 


love’s rnigiit-errant. 231 

mad frolic is afoot? Thank the stars, I am not 
bound, by virtue of my office, to know him.” 

The party reached Dover without further adven¬ 
ture. But the inspection of the fleet was evidently 
an invention for the benefit of the mayor. Instead 
of troubling themselves about the fleet, they entered 
a vessel that seemed awaiting them, and on whose 
deck they were joined by two companions. In a 
very short time they were out of harbor and off 
with a fresh wind across the Channel. Main waring 

O 

had been wrong,—was the ferryman right ?—was a 
duel the purpose of this flight in disguise ? 

Ho; the travellers made no halt at Boulogne, the 
favorite duelling-ground of English hot-bloods, but 
pushed off in haste for Montreuil, and thence rode 
straight to Paris, which they reached after a two- 
days’ journey. 

It seemed an odd freak, this ride in disguise for 
the mere purpose of a visit to Paris. But there was 
nothing to indicate that the two young men had any 
other object as they strolled carelessly during the 
next day about the French capital, known to none 
there, and enjoying themselves like school-boys on a 
holiday. 

Among the sights which they managed to see 
were the king,-Louis XIII., and his royal mother, 
Marie de Medecis. That evening a mask was to be 
rehearsed at the palace, in which the queen and the 
Princess Henrietta Maria were to take part. On 
the plea of being strangers in Paris, the two young 
Englishmen managed to obtain admittance to this 
royal merrymaking, which they highly enjoyed. As 


232 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


to what they saw, we have a partial record in a sub¬ 
sequent letter from one of them. 

“There danced,” says this epistle, “the queen and 
madame, with as many as made up nineteen fair 
dancing ladies; amongst which the queen is the 
handsomest, which hath wrought in me a greater 
desire to see her sister.” 

This sister was then at Madrid, for the queen of 
France was a daughter of Philip III. of Spain. 
And, as if Spain was the true destination of the 
travellers, and to see the French queen’s sister their 
object, at the early hour of three the next morning 
they were up and on horseback, riding out of Paris 
on the road to Bayonne. Away they went, pressing 
onward at speed, he whom we as yet know only as 
Tom Smith taking the lead, and pushing forward 
with such youthful eagerness that even the seasoned 
Buckingham looked the worse for wear before they 
reached the borders of Spain. 

Who was this eager errant knight ? All London 
by this time knew, and it is time that we should 
learn. Indeed, while the youthful wayfarers were 
speeding away on their mad and merry ride, the 
privy councillors of England were on their knees 
before King James, half beside themselves with ap¬ 
prehension, saying that Prince Charles had disap¬ 
peared, that the rumor was that he had gone to 
Spain, and begging to know if this wild rumor were 
true. 

“ There is no doubt of it,” said the king. “ But 
what of that ? His father, his grandfather, and his 
great-grandfather all went into foreign countries to 


love’s knight-errant. 233 

fetch home their wives,—why not the prince, my 
son ?” 

“ England may learn why,” was the answer of the 
alarmed councillors, and after them of the disturbed 
country. “ The king of Spain is not to be trusted 
with such a royal morsel. Suppose he seizes the 
heir to England’s throne, and holds him as hostage! 
The boy is mad, and the king in his dotage to permit 
so wild a thing.” Such was the scope of general 
comment on the prince’s escapade. 

While England fumed, and Kang James had begun 
to fret in chorus with the country, his “ sweet boys 
and dear venturous knights, worthy to be put in a 
new romanso,” as he had remarked on first learning of 
their flight, were making their way at utmost horse- 
speed across France. A few miles beyond Bayonne 
they met a messenger from the Earl of Bristol, am¬ 
bassador at Madrid, bearing despatches to England. 
They stopped him, opened his papers, and sought to 
read them, but found the bulk of them written in a 
cipher beyond their powers to solve. Baffled in 
this, they bade G-resley, the messenger, to return 
with them as far as Irun, as they wished him to bear 
to the king a letter written on Spanish soil. 

ISTo great distance farther brought them to the 
small river Bidassoa, the Bubicon of their journey. 
It formed the boundary between France and Spain. 
On reaching its southern bank they stood on the 
soil of the land of the dons, and the truant prince 
danced for joy, filled with delight at the success of 
his runaway prank. Gresley afterwards reported 
in England that Buckingham looked worn from bis 

20 * 


234 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


long ride, but that he had never seen Prince Charles 
so merry. 

Onward through this new kingdom went the 
youthful scapegraces, over the hills and plains of 
Spain, their hearts beating with merry music,—Buck¬ 
ingham gay from his native spirit of adventure, 
Charles eager to see in knight-errant fashion the 
charming infanta of Spain, of whom he had seen, as 
yet, only the “ counterfeit presentment,” and a view 
of whom in person was the real object of his jour¬ 
ney. So ardent were the two young men that they 
far outrode their companions, and at eight o’clock in 
the evening of March 7, seventeen days after they 
had left Buckingham’s villa at Newhall, the truant 
pair were knocking briskly at the door of the Earl 
of Bristol at Madrid. 

Wilder and more perilous escapade had rarely been 
adventured. The king had let them go with fear 
and trembling. Weak-willed monarch as he was, he 
could not resist Buckingham’s persuasions, though 
he dreaded the result. The uncertain temper of 
Philip of Spain was well-known, the preliminaries 
of the marriage which had been designed between 
Charles and the infanta were far from settled, the 
political relations between England and Spain were 
not of the most pacific, and it was within the bounds 
of probability that Philip might seize and hold the 
heir of England. It would give him a vast advan¬ 
tage over the sister realm, and profit had been known 
to outweigh honor in the minds of potentates. 

Heedless of all this, sure that his appearance would 
dispel the clouds that hung over the marriage com- 


love’s knight-errant. 


235 


pact and shed the sunshine of peace and union over 
the two kingdoms, giddy with the hopefulness of 
youth, and infected with Buckingham’s love of gal¬ 
lantry and adventure, Charles reached Madrid with¬ 
out a thought of peril, wild to see the infanta in his 
new role of knight-errant, and to decide for himself 
whether the beauty and accomplishments for which 
she was famed were as patent to his eye as to the 
voice of common report, and such as made her worthy 
the love of a prince of high degree. 

Such was the mood and such the hopes with 
which the romantic prince knocked at Lord Bristol’s 
door. But such was not the feeling with which the 
practised diplomat received his visitors. He saw at 
a glance the lake of possible mischief before him; 
yet he was versed in the art of keeping his counte¬ 
nance serene, and received his guests as cordially as if 
they had called on him in his London mansion. 

Bristol would have kept the coming of the prince to 
himself, if it had been possible. But the utmost ho 
could hope was to keep the secret for that night, and 
even in this he failed. Count Gondomar, a Spanish 
diplomat, called on him, saw his visitors, and while 
affecting ignorance was not for an instant deceived. 
On leaving Bristol’s house he at once hurried to the 
royal palace, and, filled with his weighty tidings, 
burst upon Count Olivares, the king’s favorite, at 
supper. Gondomar’s face was beaming. Olivares 
looked at him in surprise. 

“ What brings you here so late ?” he asked. “ One 
would think that you had got the king of England 
in Madrid.” 


236 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


u If I have not got the king,” replied Gondomar,' 
“at least I have got the prince. You cannot ask a 
rarer prize.” 

Olivares sat stupefied at the astounding news. As 
soon as he could find words he congratulated Gon¬ 
domar on his important tidings, and quickly hastened 
to find the king, who was in his bedchamber, and 
whom he astonished with the tale he had to tell. 

The monarch and his astute minister earnestly dis¬ 
cussed the subject in all its bearings. On one point 
they felt sure. The coming of Charles to Spain 
was evidence to them that he intended to change his 
religion and embrace the Catholic faith. He would 
never have ventured otherwise. But, to “ make as¬ 
surance doubly sure,” Philip turned to a crucifix 
which stood at the head of his bed, and swore on it 
that the coming of the prince of Wales should not 
induce him to take a step in the marriage not favored 
by the pope, even if it should involve the loss of his 
kingdom. 

“ As to what is temporal and mine,” he said, to 
Olivares, u see that all his wishes are gratified, in 
consideration of the obligation under which he has 
placed us by coming here.” 

Meanwhile, Bristol spent the night in the false 
belief that the secret was still his own. He sum¬ 
moned Gondomar in the morning, told him, with a 
show of conferring a favor, of what had occurred, 
and bade him to tell Olivares that Buckingham had 
arrived, but to say nothing about the prince. That 
Gondomar consented need not be said. He had 
already told all there was to tell. In the afternoon 


love’s knigiit-errant. 


237 


Buckingham and Olivares had a brief interview in 
the gardens of the palace. After nightfall the Eng¬ 
lish marquis had the honor of kissing the hand of 
his Catholic Majesty, Philip IY. of Spain. He told 
the king of the arrival of Prince Charles, much to 
the seeming surjmise of the monarch, who had learned 
the art of keeping his countenance. 

During the next day a mysterious silence was pre¬ 
served concerning the great event, though certain un¬ 
usual proceedings took place. Philip, with the queen, 
his sister, the infanta, and his two brothers, drove 
backward and forward through the streets of Madrid. 
In another carriage the Prince of Wales made a simi¬ 
larly stately progress through the same streets, the 
purpose being to yield him a passing glimpse of his 
betrothed and the royal family. The streets were 
thronged, all eyes were fixed on the coach containing 
the strangers, yet silence reigned. The rumor had 
spread far and wide who those strangers were, but it 
was a secret, and no one must show that the secret 
was afoot. Yet, though their voices were silent, their 
hearts were full of triumph in the belief that the 
future king of England had come with the purpose 
of embracing the national faith of Spain. 

At the end of 'the procession Olivares joined the 
prince and told him that his royal master was dying 
to speak with him, and could scarcely restrain him¬ 
self. An interview was quickly arranged, its locality 
to be the coach of the king. Meanwhile, Olivares 
sought Buckingham. 

“ Let us despatch this matter out of hand,” he 
said, “ and strike it up without the pope.” 


238 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


“ Yery well,” answered Buckingham; “ but how is 
it to be done ?” 

11 The means are very easy,” said Olivares, lightly. 
“ It is but the conversion of the prince, which we 
cannot conceive but his highness intended when he 
resolved upon this journey.” 

This belief was a very natural one. The fact of 
Charles being a Protestant had been the stumbling- 
block in the way of the match. A dispensation for 
the marriage of a Catholic princess with the Prot¬ 
estant prince of England had been asked from the 
pope, but had not yet been given. Charles had 
come to Madrid with the empty hope that his pres¬ 
ence would cut the knot of this difficulty, and win 
him the princes^ out of hand. The authorities and 
the people, on the contrary, fancied that nothing 
less than an intention to turn Catholic could have 
brought him to Spain. As for the infanta herself, she 
was an ardent Catholic, and bitterly opposed to being 
united in marriage to a heretic prince. Such was the 
state of affairs that prevailed. The easy pathway 
out of the difficulty which the hopeful prince had de¬ 
vised was likely to prove not quite free from thorns. 

The days passed on. Buckingham declared to 
Olivares that Charles had no thought of becoming 
a Catholic. Charles avoided the subject, and talked 
only of his love. The Spanish ministers blamed 
Bristol for his indecision, and had rooms prepared 
for the prince in the royal palace. Charles willingly 
accepted them, and on the 16th of March rode 
through the streets of Madrid, on the right hand of 
the kin£, to his new abode. 


THE ROYAL PALACE. MADRID 





















love’s knight-errant. 


239 


The people were now permitted to applaud to 
their hearts’ desire, as no farther pretence of a secret 
existed. Glad acclamations attended the progress 
of the royal cortege. The people shouted with joy, 
and all, high and low, sang a song composed for the 
occasion by Lope de Yega, the famous dramatist, 
which told how Charles had come, under the guidance 
of love, to the Spanish sky to see his star Maria. 

“ Carlos Estuardo soy 
Que, siendo amor mi guia, 

A1 cielo d'Espana voy 
Por ver mi estrella Maria.” 

The palace was decorated with all its ancient 
splendor, the streets everywhere showed signs of 
the public joy, and, as a special mark of royal clem¬ 
ency, all prisoners, except those held for heinous 
crimes, were set at liberty, among them numerous 
English galley-slaves, who had been captured in 
pirate vessels preying upon Spanish commerce. 

Yet all this merrymaking and clemency, and all 
the negotiations which proceeded in the precincts of 
the palace, did not expedite the question at issue. 
Charles had no thought of becoming a Catholic. 
Philip had little thought of permitting a marriage 
under any other conditions. The infanta hated the 
idea of the sacrifice, as she considered it. The au¬ 
thorities at Eome refused the dispensation. The 
wheels of the whole business seemed firmly blocked. 

Meanwhile, Charles had seen the infanta again, 
somewhat more closely than in a passing glance from 
a carriage, and though no words had passed between 


240 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


them, her charms of face strongly attracted his sus¬ 
ceptible heart. He was convinced that he deeply 
loved her, and he ardently pressed for a closer inter¬ 
view. This Spanish etiquette hindered, and it was 
not until April 7, Easter Hay, that a jjersonal inter¬ 
view was granted the ardent lover. On that day 
the king, accompanied by a train of grandees, led 
the English prince to the apartments of the queen, 
who sat in state, with the infanta by her side. 

Greeting the queen with proper respect, Charles 
turned to address the lady of his love. A few cere¬ 
monial words had been set down for him to utter, 
but his English heart broke the bonds of Spanish 
etiquette, and, forgetting everything but his passion, 
he began to address the princess in ardent words of 
his own choice. He had not gone far before there 
was a sensation. The persons present began to 
whisper. The queen looked with angry eyes on the 
presuming lover. The infanta was evidently an¬ 
noyed. Charles hesitated and stopped short. Some¬ 
thing seemed to have gone wrong. The infanta 
answered his eager words with a few cold, common¬ 
place sentences ; a sense of constraint and uneasiness 
appeared to haunt the apartment; the interview was 
at an end. English ideas of love-making had proved 
much too unconventional for a Spanish court. 

From that day forward the affair dragged on with 
infinite deliberation, the passion of the prince grow¬ 
ing stronger, the aversion of the infanta seemingly 
increasing, the purpose of the Spanish court to mould 
the ardent lover to its own ends appearing more 
decided. 


love’s knight-errant. 


241 


While Charles showed his native disposition by 
prevarication, Buckingham showed his by an impa¬ 
tience that soon led to anger and insolence. The 
wearisome slowness of the negotiations ill suited his 
hasty and arbitrary temper, he quarrelled with mem¬ 
bers of the State Council, and, in an interview be¬ 
tween the prince and the friars, he grew so incensed 
at the demands made that, in disregard of all the 
decencies of etiquette, he sprang from his seat, ex¬ 
pressed his contempt for the ecclesiastics by insult¬ 
ing gestures, and ended by flinging his hat on the 
ground and stamping on it. That conference came 
to a sudden end. 

As the stay of the prince in Madrid now seemed 
likely to be protracted, attendants were sent him 
from England that he might keep up some show of 
state. But the Spanish court did not want them, 
and contrived to make their stay so unpleasant and 
their accommodations so poor, that Charles soon 
packed the most of them off home again. 

“ I am glad to get away,” said one of these, James 
Eliot by name, to the prince; “ and hope that your 
Highness will soon leave this pestiferous Spain. It 
is a dangerous place to alter a man and turn him. I 
myself in a short time have q»erceived my own weak¬ 
ness, and am almost turned.” 

“ What motive had you?” asked Charles. “ What 
have you seen that should turn you ?” 

“ Marry,” replied Eliot, “ when I was in England, 
I turned the whole Bible over to find Purgatory, 
and because I could not find it there I believed there 
was none. But now that I have come to Spain, I 
II.—l q 21 


242 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


have found it here, and that your Highness is in it; 
whence that you may be released, we, your High¬ 
ness’s servants, who are going to Paradise, will offer 
unto God our utmost devotions.” 

A purgatory it was,—a purgatory lightened for 
Charles by love, he playing the role assigned by 
Dante to Paolo, though the infanta was little in¬ 
clined to imitate Francesca da Bimini. Buckingham 
fumed and fretted, was insolent to the Spanish minis¬ 
ters, and sought as earnestly to get Charles out of 
Madrid as he had done to get him there, and less 
successfully. But the love-stricken prince had be¬ 
come impracticable. His fancy deepened as the 
days passed by. Such was the ardor of his passion, 
that on one day in May he broke headlong through 
the rigid wall of Spanish etiquette, by leaping into 
the garden in which the lady of his love was walk¬ 
ing, and addressing her in words of passion. The 
startled girl shrieked and fled, and Charles was with 
difficulty hindered from following her. 

Only one end could come of all this. Spain and 
the pope had the game in their own hands. Charles 
had fairly given himself over to them, and his ardent 
passion for the lady weakened all his powers of re¬ 
sistance. King James was a slave to his son, and 
incapable of refusing him anything. The end of it 
all was that the English king agreed that all perse¬ 
cution of Catholics in England should come to an 
end, without a thought as to what the parliament 
might say to this hasty promise, and Charles signed 
papers assenting to all the Spanish demands, except¬ 
ing that he should himself become a Catholic. 


love’s knight-errant. 


243 


The year wore wearily on till August was reached. 
England and her king were by this time wildly 
anxious that the prince should return. Yet he hung 
on with the pitiful indecision that marked his whole 
life, and it is not unlikely that the incident which in¬ 
duced him to leave Spain at last was a wager with 
Bristol, who offered to risk a ring worth one thou¬ 
sand pounds that the prince would spend his Christ¬ 
mas in Madrid. 

It was at length decided that he should return, the 
2d of September being the day fixed upon for his de¬ 
parture. He and the king enjoyed a last hunt to¬ 
gether, lunched under the shadows of the trees, and 
bade each other a seemingly loving farewell. Buck¬ 
ingham’s good-by was of a different character. It 
took the shape of a violent quarrel with Olivares, the 
Spanish minister of state. And home again set out 
the brace of knights-errant, not now in the simple 
fashion of Tom and John Smith, but with much of the 
processional display of a royal cortege. Then it was 
a gay ride of two ardent youths across France and 
Spain, one filled with thoughts of love, the other 
with the spirit of adventure. How it was a stately, 
almost a regal, movement, with anger as its source, 
disappointment as its companion. Charles had fairly 
sold himself to Philip, and yet was returning home 
without his bride. Buckingham, the nobler nature 
of the two, had by his petulance and arrogance kept 
himself in hot water with the Spanish court. Alto¬ 
gether, the adventure had not been a success. 

The bride was to follow the prince to England m 
the spring. But the farther he got from Madrid the 


244 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


less Charles felt that he wanted her. His love, 
which had grown as he came, diminished as he went. 
It had then spread over his fancy like leaves on a 
tree in spring; now it fell from him like leaves from 
an October tree. It had been largely made up, at 
the best, of fancy and vanity, and blown to a white 
heat by the obstacles which had been thrown in his 
way. It cooled with every mile that took him from 
Madrid. 

To the port of Santander moved the princely train. 
As it entered that town, the bells were rung and 
cannon fired in welcoming peals. A fleet lay there, 
sent to convey him home, one of the ships having a 
gorgeously-decorated cabin for the infanta,—who 
was not there to occupy it. 

Late in the daj^ as it was, Charles was so eager ta 
leave the detested soil of Spain, that he put otf in a 
boat after nightfall for the fleet. It was a movement 
Hot without its peril. The wind blew, the tide was 
strong, the rowers proved helpless against its force, 
and the boat with its precious freight would have 
been carried out to sea had not one of the sailors 
managed to seize a rope that hung by the side of a 
ship which they were being rapidly swept past. In 
a few minutes more the English prince was on an 
English deck. 

For some days the wind kept the fleet at Santan¬ 
der. All was cordiality and festivity between Eng¬ 
lish and Spaniards. Charles concealed his change 
of heart. Buckingham repressed his insolence. On 
the 18th of September the fleet weighed anchor and 
left the coast of Spain. On the 5th of October Prince 


love’s knight-errant. 


245 


Charles landed at Portsmouth, his romantic escapade 
happily at an end. 

He hurried to London with all speed. But rapidly 
as he went, the news of his coming had spread 
before him. He came without a Spanish bride. The 
people, who despised the whole business and feared 
its results, were wild with delight. When Charles 
landed from the barge in which he had crossed the 
Thames, he found the streets thronged with applaud¬ 
ing people, he heard the bells on every side merrily 
ringing, he heard the enthusiastic people shouting, 
“ Long live the Prince of Wales!” All London was 
wild with delight. Their wandering prince had been 
lost and was found again. 

The day was turned into a holiday. Tables loaded 
with food and wine were placed in the streets by 
wealthy citizens, that all who wished might partake. 
Prisoners for debt were set at liberty, their debts 
being paid by persons unknown to them. A cart¬ 
load of felons on its way to the gallows at Tyburn 
was turned back, it happening to cross the prince’s 
path, and its inmates gained an unlooked-for respite. 
When night fell the town blazed out in illumination, 
candles being set in every window, while bonfires 
blazed in the streets. In the short distance between 
St. Paul’s and London Bridge flamed more than a 
hundred piles. Carts laden with wood were seized 
by the populace, the horses taken out and the torch 
applied, cart and load together adding their tribute 
of flame. Never had so sudden and spontaneous 
an ebullition of joy broken out in London streets. 
The return of the prince was a strikingly different 

21 * 


246 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


affair from that mad ride in disguise a few months 
before, which spread suspicion at every step, and 
filled England with rage when the story became 
known. 

We have told the story of the prince’s adventure; 
a few words will tell the end of his love-affair. As 
for Buckingham, he had left England as a marquis, 
he came back with the title of duke. King James 
had thus rewarded him for abetting the folly of 
his son. The Spanish marriage never took place. 
Charles’s love had been lost in his journey home. 
He brought scarce a shred of it back to London. 
The temper of the English people in regard to the 
concessions to the Catholics was too outspokenly 
hostile to be trifled with. Obstacles arose in the way 
of the marriage. It was postponed. Difficulties 
appeared on both sides the water. Before the year 
ended all hopes of it were over, and the negotiations 
at an end. Prince Charles finally took for wife that 
Princess Henrietta Maria of France whom he and 
Buckingham had first seen dancing in a royal masque, 
during their holiday visit in disguise to Paris. The 
romance of his life was over. The reality was soon 
to begin. 


THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT 

CASTLE. 


On the top of a lofty hill, with a broad outlook 
over the counties of Yorkshire, Lincolnshire, and 
Nottinghamshire, stood Pontefract Castle, a strong 
work belonging to the English crown, but now in 
the hands of Cromwell’s men, and garrisoned by 
soldiers of the Parliamentary army. The war, indeed, 
was at an end, King Charles in prison, and Cromwell 
lord of the realm, so that further resistance seemed 
useless. 

But now came a rising in Scotland in favor of the 
king, and many of the royalists took heart again, 
hoping that, while Cromwell was busy with the 
Scotch, there would be risings elsewhere. In their 
view the war was once more afoot, and it would be 
a notable deed to take Pontefract Castle from its 
Puritan garrison and hold it for the king. Such were 
the inciting causes to the events of which we have 
now to speak. 

There was a Colonel Morrice, who, as a very young 
man, had been an officer in the king’s army. He 
afterwards joined the army of the Parliament, where 
he made friends and did some bold service. Later 
on, the strict discipline of Cromwell’s army offended 

247 


248 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


this versatile gentleman, and he threw up his com- 
mission and retired to his estates, where he enjoyed 
life with much of the Cavalier freedom. 

Among his most intimate friends was the Parlia¬ 
mentary governor of Pontefract Castle, who enjoyed 
his society so greatly that he would often have him 
at the castle for a week at a time, they sleeping to¬ 
gether like brothers. The confiding governor had 
no suspicion of the treasonable disposition of his bed¬ 
fellow, and, though warned against him, would not 
listen to complaint. 

Morrice was familiar with the project to surprise 
the fortress, at the head of which was Sir Marma- 
duke Langdale, an old officer of the king. To one 
of the conspirators he said,— 

“ Do not trouble yourself about this matter. I 
will surprise the castle for you, whenever you think 
the time ripe for it.” 

This gentleman thereupon advised the conspirators 
to wait, and to trust him to find means to enter the 
stronghold. As they had much confidence in him, 
they agreed to his request, without questioning him 
too closely for the grounds of his assurance. Mean¬ 
while, Morrice went to work. 

“ I should counsel you to take great care that you 
have none but faithful men in the garrison,” he said 
to the governor. “ I have reason to suspect that 
there are men in this neighborhood who have designs 
upon the castle; among them some of your frequent 
visitors.” 

He gave him a list of names, some of them really 
conspirators, others sound friends of the Parliament. 


THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 249 

“ You need hardly be troubled about these fellows, 
however,” be said. “ I have a friend in their counsel, 
and am sure to be kept posted as to their plans. 
And for that matter I can, in short notice, bring you 
forty or fifty safe men to strengthen your garrison, 
should occasion arise.” 

lie made himself also familiar with the soldiers of 
the garrison, playing and drinking with them; and 
when sleeping there would often rise at night and 
visit the guards, sometimes inducing the governor, 
by misrepresentations, to dismiss a faithful man, and 
replace him by one in his own confidence. 

So the affair went on, Morrice laying his plans 
with much skill and caution. As it proved, however, 
the conspirators became impatient to execute the 
affair before it was fully ripe. Scotland was in arms; 
there were alarms elsewhere in the kingdom ; Crom¬ 
well was likely to have enough to occupy him; delay 
seemed needless. They told the gentleman who had 
asked them to wait that he must act at once. He 
in his turn advised Morrice, who lost no time in com¬ 
pleting his plans. 

On a certain night fixed by him the surprise-party 
were to be ready with ladders, which they must erect 
in two places against the wall. Morrice would see 
that safe sentinels were posted at these points. At 
a signal agreed upon they were to mount the ladders 
and break into the castle. 

The night came. Morrice was in the castle, 
where he shared the governor’s bed. At the hour 
arranged ho rose and sought the walls. He was just 
in time to prevent ;he failure of the enterprise. Un« 


250 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


known to him, one of the sentinels had been changed. 
Those without gave the signal. One of the sentinels 
answered it. The surprise-party ran forward with 
both ladders. 

Morrice, a moment afterwards, heard a cry of 
alarm from the other sentinel, and hasting forward 
found him running back to call the guard. He looked 
at him. It was the wrong man ! There bad been 
some mistake. 

“ What is amiss?” he asked. 

“ There are men under the wall,” replied the sol¬ 
dier. “ Some villany is afoot.” 

“ Oh, come, that cannot be.” 

“ It is. I saw them.” 

“ I don’t believe you, sirrah,” said Morrice, severely. 
“You have been frightened by a shadow. Come, 
show me the place. Don’t make yourself a laughing¬ 
stock for your fellows.” 

The sentinel turned and led the way to tbe top of 
the wall. He pointed down. 

“ There; do you see ?” he asked. 

His words stopped there, for at that instant ho 
found himself clasped by strong arms, and in a 
minute more was thrown toppling from the wall. 
Morrice had got rid of the dangerous sentry. 

By this time the ladders were up, and some of 
those without had reached the top of the wall. They 
signalled to their friends at a distance, and rushed to 
the court of guard, whose inmates they speedily mas¬ 
tered, after knocking two or three of them upon the 
head. The gates were now thrown open, and a strong 
body of horse and foot who waited outside rode in. 


THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 251 

The castle was won. Morrice led a party to the 
governor’s chamber, told him that “the castle was 
surprised and himself a prisoner,” and advised him 
to surrender. The worthy governor seized his arms 
and dealt some blows, but was quickly disarmed, and 
Pontefract was again a castle of the king. 

So ended the first act in this drama. There was 
a second act to be played, in which Cromwell was to 
take a hand. The garrison was quickly reinforced 
by royalists from the surrounding counties; the 
castle was well provisioned and its fortifications 
strengthened; contributions were raised from neigh¬ 
boring parts; and the marauding excursions of the 
garrison soon became so annoying that an earnest 
appeal was made to Cromwell, “ that he would make 
it the business of his army to reduce Pontefract.” 

Just then Cromwell had other business for his 
army. The Scots were in the field. He was march¬ 
ing to reduce them. Pontefract must wait. He 
sent, however, two or three regiments, which, with 
aid from the counties, he deemed would be sufficient 
for the work. 

Events moved rapidly. Before the Parliamen¬ 
tarian troops under Eainsborough reached the castle, 
Cromwell had met and defeated the army of Scots, 
taking, among other prisoners, Sir Marmaduke Lang- 
dale, whom the Parliament threatened to make “ an 
example of their justice.” 

The men of Pontefract looked on Sir Marmaduke 
as their leader. Rainsborough was approaching the 
castle, but was still at some distance. It was deemed 
a worthy enterprise to take him prisoner, if possible, 


252 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


and hold him as hostage for Sir Marmaduke. Mor- 
rice took on himself this difficult and dangerous 
enterprise. 

At nightfall, with a party of twelve picked and 
choice men, he left the castle and made his way 
towards the town which Eainsborough then occu¬ 
pied. The whole party knew the roads well, and 
about daybreak reached the point for which they 
had aimed,—the common road leading from York. 
The movement had been shrewdly planned. The 
guards looked for no enemy from this direction, and 
carelessly asked the party of strange horsemen 
“ whence they came.” 

The answer was given with studied ease and care¬ 
lessness. 

“Where is your general?” asked Morrice. “1 
have a letter for him from Cromwell.” 

The guard sent one of their number with the party 
to show them where Eainsborough might be found, 
—at the best inn of the town. When the inn-gate 
•was opened in response to their demand, three only 
of the party entered. The others rode onward to 
the bridge at the opposite end of the town, on the 
road leading to Pontefract. Here they found a guard 
of horse and foot, with whom they entered into 
easy conversation. 

“ We are waiting for our officer,” they said. “ He 
went in to speak to the general. Is there anything 
convenient to drink? We have had a dry ride.” 

The guards sent for some drink, and, it being now 
broad day, gave over their vigilance, some of the 
horse-soldiers alighting, while the footmen sought 


THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 253 

their court of guard, fancying that their hour of 
duty was passed. 

Meanwhile, tragical work was going on at the inn. 
Mobody had been awake there but the man who 
opened the gate. They asked him where the gen¬ 
eral lay. He pointed up to the chamber-door, and 
two of them ascended the stairs, leaving the third 
to hold the horses and in conversation with the sol¬ 
dier who had acted as their guide. 

Eainsborough was still in bed, but awakened on 
their entrance and asked them who they were and 
what they wanted. 

“ It is yourself we want,” they replied. “ You aro 
our prisoner. It is for you to choose whether you 
prefer to be killed, or quietly to put on your clothes, 
mount a horse which is ready below for you, and go 
with us to Pontefract.” 

He looked at them in surprise. They evidently 
meant what they said; their voices were firm, their 
arms ready; he rose and dressed quickly. This com¬ 
pleted, they led him down-stairs, one of them carry¬ 
ing his sword. 

When they reached the street only one man was 
to be seen. The soldier of the guard had been sent 
away to order them some breakfast. The prisoner, 
seeing one man only where he had looked for a troop, 
struggled to escajie and called loudly for help. 

It was evident that he could not be carried off; 
the moment was critical; a few minutes might bring 
a force that it would be madness to resist; but they 
had not come thus far and taken this risk for nothing. 
He would not go; they had no time to force him; 

22 


254 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


only one thing remained: they ran him through 
with their swords and left him dead upon the grounds 
Then, mounting, they rode in haste for the bridge. 

Those there knew what they were to do. The 
approach of their comrades was the signal for action. 
They immediately drew their weapons and attacked 
those with whcm they had been in pleasant con¬ 
versation. In a brief time several of the guard 
were killed and the others in full flight. The road 
was clear. The others came up. A minute more 
and they were away, in full flight, upon the shortest 
route to Pontefract, leaving the soldiers of the town 
in consternation, for the general was soon found 
dead, with no one to say how he had been killed. 
Not a soul had seen the tragic deed. In due time 
Morrice and his men reached Pontefract, without 
harm to horse or man, but lacking the hoped-for 
prisoner, and having left death and vengeance be¬ 
hind them. 

So far all had gone well with the garrison. Hence¬ 
forth all promised to go ill. Pontefract was the one 
place in England that held out against Cromwell, 
the last stronghold of the king. And its holders had 
angered the great leader of the Ironsides by killing 
one of his most valued officers. Petribution was 
demanded. General Lambert was sent with a strong 
force to reduce the castle. 

The works were strong, and not easily to be taken 
by assault. They might be taken by hunger. Lam¬ 
bert soon had the castle surrounded, cooping the 
garrison closely within its own precincts. 

Against this they protested,—in the martial man- 


THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 255 

ner. Many bold sallies were made, in which num¬ 
bers on both sides lost their lives. Lambert soon 
discovered that certain persons in the country around 
were in correspondence with the garrison, sending 
them information. Of these he made short work, 
according to the military ethics of that day. They 
were seized and hanged within sight of the castle; 
among them being two divines and some women of 
note, friends of the besieged. Some might call this 
murder. They called it war,—a salutary example. 

Finding themselves closely confined within their 
walls, their friends outside hanged, no hope of relief, 
starvation their ultimate fate, the garrison concluded 
at length that it was about time to treat for terms 
of peace. All England besides was in the hands of 
Cromwell and the Parliament; there was nothing to 
be gained by this one fortress holding out, unless it 
were the gallows. They therefore offered to deliver 
up the castle, if they might have honorable con¬ 
ditions. If not, they said,— 

“ We are still well stocked with provisions, and can 
hold out for a long time. If we are assured of par¬ 
don we will yield; if not, we are ready to die, and 
will not sell our lives for less than a good price.” 

“ I know you for gallant men,” replied Lambert, 
“ and am ready to grant life and liberty to as many 
of you as I can. But there are six among you whose 
lives I cannot save. I am sorry for this, for they 
are brave men; but my hands are bound.” 

« Who are the six ? And what have they done that 
they should be beyond mercy?” 

“ They were concerned in the death of Pains 


256 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


borough. I do not desire their death, but Cromwell 
is incensed against them.” 

He named the six. They were Colonel Morrice, 
Sir John Digby, and four others who had been in the 
party of twelve. 

“ These must be delivered up without conditions,” 
he continued. “ The rest of you may return to your 
homes, and apply to the Parliament for release from 
all prosecution. In this I will lend you my aid.” 

The leaders of the garrison debated this proposal, 
and after a short time returned their answer. 

“We acknowledge your clemency and courtesy,” 
they said, “ and would be glad to accept your terms 
did they not involve a base desertion of some of our 
fellows. We cannot do as you say, but will make 
this offer. G-ive us six days, and let these six men 
do what they can to deliver themselves, we to have 
the privilege of assisting them. This much we ask 
for our honor.” 

“ Ho you agree to surrender the castle and all 
within it at the end of that time?” asked Lambert. 

“We pledge ourselves to that.” 

“ Then I accept your proposal. Six days’ grace 
shall bo allowed you.” 

Just what they proposed to do for the release of 
their proscribed companions did not appear. The 
castle was closely and strongly invested, and these 
men were neither rats nor birds. How did they hope 
to escape ? 

The first day of the six passed and nothing was 
done. A strong party of the garrison had made its 
appearance two or three times, as if resolved upon a 


THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 257 

sally; but each time they retired, apparently not 
liking the outlook. On the second day they were 
bolder. They suddenly appeared at a different point 
from that threatened the day before, and attacked 
the besiegers with such spirit as to drive them from 
their posts, both sides losing men. In the end the 
sallying party was driven back, but two of the six— 
Morrice being one—had broken through and made 
their escape. The other four were forced to retire. 

Two days now passed without a movement on the 
part of the garrison. Four of the six men still re¬ 
mained in the castle. The evening of the fourth 
day came. The gloom of night gathered. Suddenly 
a strong party from the garrison emerged from a 
sally-port and rushed upon the lines of the besiegers 
with such fire and energy that they were for a time 
broken, and two more of the proscribed escaped. 
The others were driven back. 

The morning of the fifth day dawned. Four days 
had gone, and four* of the proscribed men were free. 
How were the other two to gain their liberty? The 
method so far pursued could scarcely be successful 
again. The besiegers would be too heedfully on the 
alert. Some of the garrison had lost their lives in 
aiding the four to escape. It was too dangerous an 
experiment to be repeated, with their lives assured 
them if they remained in the castle. What was to 
be done for the safety of the other two ? The matter 
was thoroughly debated and a plan devised. 

On the morning of the sixth day the besieged made 
a great show of joy, calling from the walls that their 
six friends had gone, and that they would be ready 
II.— r 22* 


258 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


to surrender the next day. This news was borne to 
Lambert, who did not believe a word of it, the escape 
of the four men not having been observed. Mean¬ 
while, the garrison proceeded to put in effect their 
stratagem. 

The castle was a large one, its rooms many and 
spacious. JSTor was it all in repair. Here and there 
walls had fallen and not been rebuilt, and abundance 
of waste stones strewed the ground in these locali¬ 
ties. Seeking a place which was least likely to be 
visited, they walled up the two proscribed men, 
building the wall in such a manner that air could 
enter and that they might have some room for move¬ 
ment. Giving them food enough to last for thirty 
days, they closed the chamber, and left the two men 
in their tomb-like retreat. 

The sixth day came. The hour fixed arrived. The 
gates were thrown open. Lambert and his men 
marched in and took possession of the fortress. The 
garrison was marshalled before him, and a strict 
search made among them for the six men, whom he 
fully expected to find. They were not there. The 
castle was closely searched. They could not be 
found. He was compelled to admit that the garrison 
had told him the truth, and that the six had indeed 
escaped. 

For this Lambert did not seem in any sense sorry. 
The men were brave. Their act had been one allow 
able in war. He was secretly rather glad that they 
had escaped, and treated the others courteously, per¬ 
mitting them to leave the castle with their effects 
and seek their homes, as he had promised. And 


THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE. 


259 


so ended the taking and retaking of Pontefract 
Castle. 

It was the last stronghold of the king in England, 
and was not likely to be used again for that purpose. 
But to prevent this, Lambert handled it in such 
fashion that it was left a vast pile of ruins, unfit to 
harbor a garrison. He then drew ofi* his troops, not 
having discovered the concealed men in this proceed¬ 
ing. Ten days passed. Then the two flung down 
their wall and emerged among the ruins. They found 
the castle a place for bats, uninhabited by man, but 
lost no time in seeking less suspicious quarters. 

Of the six men, Morrice was afterwards taken and 
executed; the others remained free. Sir John Digby 
lived to become a favored member of the court of 
Charles II. As for Sir Marmaduke Langdale, to 
whose imprisonment Rainsborough owed his death, 
he escaped from his prison in Nottingham Castle, 
and made his way beyond the seas, not to return 
until England again had a king. 


THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL 

FUGITIVE. 


It was early September of 1651, the year that 
tolled the knell of royalty in England. In all direc¬ 
tions from the fatal field of Worcester panic-stricken 
fugitives were flying; in all directions blood-craving 
victors were pursuing. Charles I. had lost his head 
for his blind obstinacy, two years before. Charles II., 
crowned king by the Scotch, had made a gallant fight 
for the throne. But Cromwell was his opponent, and 
Cromwell carried victory on his banners. The young 
king had invaded England, reached Worcester, and 
there felt the heavy hand of the Protector and his Iron¬ 
sides. A fierce day’s struggle, a defeat, a flight, and 
kingship in England was at an end while Cromwell 
lived; the last scion of royalty was a flying fugitive. 

At six o’clock in the evening of that fatal day, 
Charles, the boy-king, discrowned by battle, was 
flying through St. Martin’s Gate from a city whose 
streets were filled with the bleeding bodies of his late 
supporters. Just outside the town he tried to rally 
his men ; but in vain, no fight was left in their scared 
hearts. Nothing remained but flight at panic speed, 
for the bloodhounds of war were on his track, and 
if caught by those stern Parliamentarians he might 
2G0 


TIIE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 261 

be given the short shriving of his beheaded father. 
Away went the despairing prince with a few fol¬ 
lowers, riding for life, flinging from him as he rode 
his blue ribbon and garter and all his princely orna¬ 
ments, lest pursuers should know him by these 
insignia of royalty. On for twelve hours Charles and 
his companions galloped at racing speed, onward 
through the whole night following that day of blood 
and woe; and at break of day on September 4 they 
reached Whiteladies, a friendly house of refuge in 
Severn’s fertile valley. 

The story of the after-adventures of the fugitive 
prince is so replete with hair-breadth escapes, dis¬ 
guises, refreshing instances of fidelity, and startling 
incidents, as to render it one of the most romantic 
tales to be found in English history. A thousand 
pounds were set upon his head, yet none, peasant or 
peer, proved false to him. He was sheltered alike 
in cottage and hall; more than a score of people 
knew of his route, yet not a word of betrayal was 
spoken, not a thought of betrayal was entertained; 
and the agents of the Protector vainly scoured the 
country in all directions for the princely fugitive, 
who found himself surrounded by a loyalty worthy 
a better man, and was at last enabled to leave the 
country in Cromwell’s despite. 

Let us follow the fugitive prince in his flight. 
Beaching Whiteladies, he found a loyal friend in its 
proprietor. Ho sooner was it known in the mansion 
that the field of Worcester had been lost, and that 
the flying prince had sought shelter within its walls, 
than all was haste and excitement. 


262 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


“You must not remain here,” declared Mr. Gifford, 
one of his companions. “ The house is too open. 
The pursuers will be here within the hour. Measures 
for your safety must be taken at once.” 

“ The first of which is disguise,” said Charles. 

His long hair was immediately cut off, his face and 
hands stained a dark hue, and the coarse and thread¬ 
bare clothing of a peasant provided to take the place 
of his rich attire. Thus dressed and disguised, the 
royal fugitive looked like anything but a king. 

“ But your features will betray you,” said the 
cautious Gifford. “ Many of these men know your 
face. You must seek a safer place of refuge.” 

Hurried movements followed. The few friends 
who had accompanied Charles took to the road again, 
knowing that their presence would endanger him, 
and hoping that their flight might lead the blood¬ 
hounds of pursuit astray. They gone, the loyal 
master of Whiteladies sent for certain of his em¬ 
ployees whom he could trust. These were six 
brothers named Penderell, laborers and woodmen 
in his service, Catholics, and devoted to the royal 
family. 

“This is the king,” he said to William Penderell; 
“ you must have a care of him, and preserve him as 
you did me.” 

Thick woodland adjoined the mansion of White- 
ladies. Into this the youthful prince was led by 
Richard Penderell, one of the brothers. It was now 
broad day. Through the forest went the two seeming 
peasants, to its farther side, where a broad highway 
ran past. Here, peering through the bushes, they 


THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 263 

saw a troop of horse ride by, evidently not old 
soldiers, more like the militia who made up part of 
Cromwell’s army. 

These countrified warriors looked around them. 
Should they enter the woods ? Some of the Scottish 
rogues, mayhap Charles Stuart, their royal leader, 
himself, might be there in hiding. But it had begun 
to rain, and by good fortune the shower poured down 
in torrents upon the woodland, while little rain fell 
upon the heath beyond. To the countrymen, who 
had but begun to learn the trade of soldiers, the 
certainty of a dry skin was better than the forlorn 
chance of a flying prince. They rode rapidly on to 
escape a drenching, much to the relief of the lurking 
observers. 

“ The rogues are hunting me close,” said the 
prince, “and by our Lady, this waterfall isn’t of 
the pleasantest. Let us get back into the thick of 
the woods.” 

Penderell led the way to a dense glade, where ho 
spread a blanket which he had brought with him 
under one of the most thick-leaved trees, to protect 
the prince from the soaked ground. Hither his sis¬ 
ter, Mrs. Yates, brought a supply of food, consisting 
of bread, butter, eggs, and milk. Charles looked at 
her with grateful eyes. 

“ My good woman,” he said, “ can you be faithful 
to a distressed cavalier?” 

“I will die sooner than betray you,” was her 
devoted answer. 

Charles ate his rustic meal with a more hopeful 
heart than ho had had since leaving Worcester’s field. 


264 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


The loyal devotion of these humble friends cheered 
him up greatly. 

As night came on the rain ceased. No sooner had 
darkness settled upon the wood than the prince and 
his guide started towards the Severn, it being his 
purpose to make his way, if possible, into Wales, in 
some of whose ports a vessel might be found to take 
him abroad. Their route took them past a mill. It 
was quite dark, yet they could make out the miller 
by his white clothes, as he sat at the mill-door. The 
flour-sprinkled fellow heard their footsteps in the 
darkness, and called out,— 

“ Who goes there ?” 

“Neighbors going home,” answered Eichard Pen- 
derell. 

“ If you be neighbors, stand, or I will knock you 
down,” cried the suspicious miller, reaching behind 
the door for his cudgel. 

“ Follow me,” said Penderell, quietly, to the prince. 
“ I fancy master miller is not alone.” 

They ran swiftly along a lane and up a hill, open¬ 
ing a gate at the top of it. The miller followed, 
yelling out, “ Eogues! rogues 1 Come on, lads; catch 
these runaways.” 

He was joined by several men who came from the 
mill, and a sharp chase began along a deep and dirty 
lane, Charles and his guide running until they were 
tired out. They had distanced their pursuers; no 
sound of footsteps could be heard behind them. 

“Let us leap the hedge, and lie behind it to see if 
they are still on our track,” said the prince. 

This they did, and lay there for half an hour, lis- 


THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 265 

tening intently for pursuers. Then, as it seemed 
evident that the miller and his men had given up 
the chase, they rose and walked on. 

At a village near by lived an honest gentleman 
named Woolfe, who had hiding places in his house 
for priests. Day was at hand, and travelling dan¬ 
gerous. Penderell proposed to go on and ask shelter 
from this person for an English gentleman who 
dared not travel by day. 

“ Go, but look that you do not betray my name,” 
said the prince. 

Penderell left his royal charge in a field, sheltered 
under a hedge beside a great tree, and sought Mr. 
Woolfe’s house, to whose questions he replied that 
the person seeking shelter was a fugitive from the 
battle of Worcester. 

“ Then I cannot harbor him,” was the good man’s 
reply. “It is too dangerous a business. I will not 
venture my neck for any man, unless it be the king 
himself.” 

“ Then you will for this man, for you have hit the 
mark; it is the king,” replied the guide, quite for¬ 
getting the injunction given him. 

“ Bring him, then, in God’s name,” said Mr. Woolfe. 
“ I will risk all I have to help him.” 

Charles was troubled when he heard the story of 
his loose-tongued guide. But there was no help for 
it now. The villager must be trusted. They sought 
Mr. Woolfe’s house by the rear entrance, the prince 
receiving a warm but anxious welcome from the loyal 
old gentleman. 

“ I am sorry you are here, for the place is peril- 
m 23 


266 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


ous,” said the host. 11 There are two companies of 
militia in the village who keep a guard on the ferry, 
to stop any one from escaping that way. As for 
my hiding-places, they have all been discovered, and 
it is not safe to put you in any of them. I can offer 
you no shelter but in my barn, where you can lie 
behind the corn and hay.” 

The prince was grateful even for this sorry shel¬ 
ter, and spent all that day hidden in the hay, feast¬ 
ing on some cold meat which his host had given 
him. The next night he set out for Richard Pen- 
derell’s house, Mr. Woolfe having told him that it 
was not safe to try the Severn, it being closely 
guarded at all its fords and bridges. On their way 
they came again near the mill. Not caring to be 
questioned as before by the suspicious miller, they 
diverged towards the river. 

“Can you swim?” asked Charles of his guide. 

“ Not I; and the river is a scurvy one.” 

“ I’ve a mind to try it,” said the prince. “ It’s a 
small stream at the best, and I may help you over.” 

They crossed some fields to the river-side, and 
Charles entered the water, leaving his attendant on 
the bank. He waded forward, and soon found that 
the water came but little above his waist. 

Give me your hand,” he said, returning. “ There’s 
no danger of drowning in this water ” 

Leading his guide, he soon stood on the safe side 
of that river the passage of which had given him 
so many anxious minutes. 

Towards morning they reached the house of a Mr. 
YVhitgrave, a Catholic, whom the prince could trust. 


THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 267 

Here he found in hiding a Major Careless, a fugitive 
officer from the defeated army. Charles revealed 
himself to the major, and held a conference with 
him, asking him what he had best do. 

“ It will be very dangerous for you to stay here; 
the hue and cry is up, and no place is safe from 
search,” said the major. “ It is not you alone they 
are after, but all of our side. There is a great wood 
near by Boscobel house, but I would not like to ven¬ 
ture that, either. The enemy will certainly search 
there. My advice is that we climb into a great, 
thick-leaved oak-tree that stands near the woods, 
but in an open place, where we can see around us.” 

“ Faith, I like your scheme, major,” said Charles, 
briskly. “ It is thick enough to hide us, you think ?” 

“ Yes; it was lopped a few years ago, and has 
grown out again very close and bushy. We will be 
as safe there as behind a thick-set hedge.” 

“ So let it be, then,” said the prince. 

Obtaining some food from their host,—bread, 
cheese, and small beer, enough for the day,—the two 
fugitives, Charles and Careless, climbed into what 
has since been known as the “royal oak,” and re¬ 
mained there the whole day, looking down in safety 
on soldiers who were searching the wood for royal¬ 
ist fugitives. From time to time, indeed, parties of 
search passed under the very tree which bore such 
royal fruit, and the prince and the major heard their 
chat with no little amusement. 

Charles, light-hearted by nature, and a mere boy 
in years,—he had just passed twenty-one,—was rising 
above the heavy sense of depiession which had 


268 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


hitherto borne him down. His native temperament 
was beginning to declare itself, and he and the major, 
couched like squirrels in their leafy covert, laughed 
quietly to themselves at the baffled seachers, while 
they ate their bread and cheese with fresh appetites. 

When night had fallen they left the tree, and the 1 
prince, parting with his late companion, sought a 
neighboring house where he was promised shelter in 
one of those hiding-places provided for proscribed 
priests. Here he found Lord Wilmot, one of the 
officers who had escaped with him from the fatal 
field of Worcester, and who had left him at White- 
ladies. 

It is too much to tell in detail all the movements 
that followed. The search for Prince Charles con¬ 
tinued with unrelenting severity. Daily, noble and 
plebeian officers of the defeated army were seized. 
The country was being scoured, high and low. Fre¬ 
quently the prince saw the forms or heard the voices 
of those who sought him diligently. But 44 Will 
Jones,” the woodman, was not easily to be recognized 
as Charles Stuart, the prince. He was dressed in 
the shabbiest of weather-worn suits, his hair cut 
short to his ears, his face embrowned, his head 
covered with an old and greasy gray steeple hat, with 
turned-up brims, his ungloved and stained hands 
holding for cane a long and crooked thorn-stick. 
Altogether it was a very unprincely individual who 
roamed those peril-haunted shires of England. 

The two fugitives—Prince Charles and Lord Wil¬ 
mot—now turned their steps towards the seaport of 
Bristol, hoping there to find means of passage to 


THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 269 

France. Their last place of refuge in Staffordshire 
was at the house of Colonel Lane, of Bently, an 
earnest royalist. Here Charles dropped his late name, 
and assumed that of Will Jackson. He threw off 
his peasant’s garb, put on the livery of a servant, 
and set off on horseback with his seeming mistress, 
Miss Jane Lane, sister of the colonel, who had sud¬ 
denly become infected with the desire of visiting a 
cousin at Abbotsleigh, near Bristol. The prince had 
now become a lady’s groom, but he proved an awk¬ 
ward one, and had to be taught the duties of his 
office. 

“ Will,” said the colonel, as they were about to 
start, “ you must give my sister your hand to help 
her to mount.” 

The new groom gave her the wrong hand. Old 
Mrs. Lane, mother to the colonel, who saw the start¬ 
ing, but knew not the secret, turned to her son, saying 
satirically,— 

“ What a goodly horsemen my daughter has got 
to ride before her!” 

To ride before her it was, for, in the fashion of the 
day, groom and mistress occupied one horse, the 
groom in front, the mistress behind. Hot two hours 
had they ridden, before the horse cast a shoe. A 
road-side village was at hand, and they stopped to 
have the bare hoof shod. The seeming groom held 
the horse’s foot, while the smith hammered at the 
nails. As they did so an amusing conversation took 
place. \ 

“ What news have you ?” asked Charles. 

“Hone worth tho telling,” answered the smith; 

23* 


270 


HISTORIOAL TALES. 


“nothing has happened since the beating of those 
rogues, the Scots.” 

“ Have any of the English, that joined hands with 
the Scots, been taken ?” asked Charles. 

“ Some of them, they tell me,” answered the smith, 
hammering sturdily at the shoe; “but I do not hear 
that that rogue, Charles Stuart, has been taken yet.” 

“ Faith,” answered the prince, “ if he should bo 
taken, he deserves hanging more than all the rest, 
for bringing the Scots upon English soil.” 

“ You speak well, gossip, and like an honest man,” 
rejoined the smith, heartily. “ And there’s your shoe, 
fit for a week’s travel on hard roads.” 

And so they parted, the king merrily telling his 
mistress the joke, when safely out of reach of the 
smith’s ears. 

There is another amusing story told of this journey. 
Stopping at a house near Stratford-upon-Avon, “ Will 
Jackson” was sent to the kitchen, as the groom’s 
place. Here he found a buxom cook-maid, engaged 
in preparing supper. 

“ Wind up the jack for me,” said the maid to her 
supposed fellow-servant. 

Charles, nothing loath, proceeded to do so. But 
he knew much less about handling a jack than a 
sword, and awkwardly wound it up the wrong way. 
The cook looked at him scornfulty, and broke out in 
angry tones,— 

“ What countrymen are you, that you know not 
how to wind up a jack ?” 

Charles answered her contritely, repressing the 
merry twinkle in his eye. 


THE ADVENTURES OE A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 271 

“I am a poor tenant’s son of Colonel Lane, in 
Staffordshire,” he said; “ we seldom have roast meat, 
and when we have, we don’t make use of a jack ” 

“ That’s not saying much for your Staffordshire 
cooks, and less for your larders,” replied the maid, 
with a head-toss of superiority. 

The house where this took place still stands, with 
the old jack hanging beside the fireplace ; and those 
who have seen it of late years do not wonder that 
Charles was puzzled how to wind it up. It might 
puzzle a wiser man. 

There is another story in which the prince played 
his part as a kitchen servant. It is said that the 
soldiers got so close upon his track that they sought 
the house in which he was, not leaving a room in it 
unvisited. Finally they made their way to the 
kitchen, where was the man they sought, with a 
servant-maid who knew him. Charles looked around 
in nervous fear. His pursuers had never been so 
near him. Doubtless, for the moment, he gave up 
the game as lost. But the loyal cook was mistress 
of the situation. She struck her seeming fellow- 
servant a smart rap with the hasting-ladle, and called 
out, shrewishly,— 

“ How, then, go on with thy work; what art thou 
looking about for ?” 

The soldiers laughed as Charles sprang up with a 
sheepish aspect, and they turned away without a 
thought that in this servant lad lay hidden the prince 
they sought. 

On September 13, ten days after the battle, Miss 
Lane and her groom reached Abbotsleigh, where 


272 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


they took refuge at the house of Mr. Morton, Colonel 
Lane's cousin. To the great regret of the fugitive, 
he learned here that there was no vessel in the port 
of Bristol that would serve his purpose of flight. 
He remained in the house for four days, under his 
guise of a servant, but was given a chamber of his 
own, on pretence of indisposition. He was just well 
of an ague, said his mistress. He was, indeed, some¬ 
what worn out with fatigue and anxiety, though of 
a disposition that would not long let him endure 
hunger or loneliness. 

In fact, on the very morning after his arrival ho 
made an early toilette, and went to the buttery-hatch 
for his breakfast. Here were several servants, Pope, 
the butler, among them. Bread and butter seems to 
have been the staple of the morning meal, though 
the butler made it more palatable by a liberal addi¬ 
tion of ale and sack. As they ate they were enter¬ 
tained by a minute account of the battle of Worcester, 
given by a country fellow who sat beside Charles at 
table, and whom he concluded, from the accuracy of 
his description, to have been one of Cromwells 
soldiers. 

Charles asked him how he came to know so well 
what took place, and was told in reply that he had 
been in the king’s regiment. On being questioned 
more closely, it proved that he had really been in 
Charles’s own regiment of guards. 

“What kind of man was he you call the king?” 
asked Charles, with an assumed air of curiosity. 

The fellow replied with an accurate description of 
the dress worn by the prince during the battle, and 


THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 273 

of the horse he rode. He looked at Charles on con- 
eluding. 

“ He was at least three fingers taller than you,” he 
said. 

The buttery was growing too hot for Will Jackson. 
What if, in another look, this fellow should get a 
nearer glimpse at the truth ? The disguised prince 
made a hasty excuse for leaving the place, being, as 
he says, “ more afraid when I knew he was one of 
our own soldiers, than when I took him for one of 
the enemy’s.” 

This alarm was soon followed by a greater one. 
One of his companions came to him in a state of 
intense affright. 

“ What shall we do ? ” he cried. “ I am afraid 
Pope, the butler, knows you. He has said very 
positively to me that it is you, but I have denied 
it.” 

“We are in a dangerous strait, indeed, ” said Charles. 
“ There is nothing for it, as I see, but to trust the 
man with our secret. Boldness, in cases like this, 
is better than distrust. Send Pope to me.” 

The butler was accordingly sent, and Charles, with 
a flattering show of candor, told him who he was, 
and requested his silence and aid. He had takeD 
the right course, as it proved. Pope was of loyal 
blood. He could not have found a more intelli¬ 
gent and devoted adherent than the butler showed 
himself during the remainder of his stay in that 
house. 

But the attentions shown the prince were compro¬ 
mising, in consideration of his disguise as a groom; 

II —s 


274 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


suspicions were likely to be aroused, and it was felt 
necessary that he should seek a now asylum. One 
was found at Trent House, in the same county, the 
residence of a fervent royalist named Colonel Wind¬ 
ham. Charles remained here, and in this vicinity, 
till the 6th of October, seeking in vain the means 
of escape from one of the neighboring ports. The 
coast proved to be too closely watched, however; and 
in the end soldiers began to arrive in the neighbor 
hood, and the rumor spread that Colonel Windham’s 
house was suspected. There w T as nothing for it but 
another flight, which, this time, brought him into 
Wiltshire, where he took refuge at Hele House, the 
residence of Mr. Hyde. 

Charles himself tells an interesting story of one of 
his adventures while at Trent House. He, with some 
companions, had ridden to a place called Burport, 
where they were to wait for Lord Wilmot, who had 
gone to Lyme, four miles farther, to look after a 
possible vessel. As they came near Burport they 
saw that the streets were full of red-coats, Cromwell’s 
soldiers, there being a whole regiment in the town. 

“What shall we do?” asked Colonel Windham, 
greatly startled at the sight. 

“ Ho ? why face it out impudently, go to the best 
hotel in the place, and take a room there,” said 
Charles. “It is the only safe thing to do. And 
otherwise we would miss Lord Wilmot, which would 
be inconvenient to both of us.” 

Windham gave in, and they rode boldly forward 
to the chief inn of the place. The yard was filled 
with soldiers. Charles, as the groom of the party. 


THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 275 

alighted, took the horses, and purposely led them in 
a blundering way through the midst of the soldiers 
to the stable. Some of the red-coats angrily cursed 
him for his rudeness, but he went serenely on, a? 
if soldiers were no more to him than flies. 

Beaching the stable, he took the bridles from the 
horses, and called to the hostler to give them some 
oats. 

“ Sure,” said the hostler, peering at him closely, 
“ I know your face.” 

This was none too pleasant a greeting for the dis¬ 
guised prince, but he put on a serene countenance, 
and asked the man whether he had always lived at 
that place. 

“No,” said the hostler. “I was born in Exeter, 
and was hostler in an inn there near Mr. Potter’s, a 
great merchant of that town.” 

“ Then you must have seen me at Mr. Potter’s,” 
said Charles. “ I lived with him over a year.” 

“ That is it,” answered the hostler. “ I remember 
you a boy there. Let us go drink a pot of beer on 
it.” 

Charles excused himself, saying that he must go 
look after his master’s dinner, and he lost little time 
in getting out of that town, lest some one else might 
have as inconvenient and less doubtful a memory. 

While the prince was flying, his foes were pur¬ 
suing. The fact that the royal army was scattered 
was not enough for the politic mind of Cromwell. 
Its leader was still at large, somewhere in England; 
while he remained free all was at risk. Those tur¬ 
bulent Scotch might be again raised. A new Dun- 


276 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


bar or Worcester might be fought, with different 
fortune. The flying Charles Stuart must be held cap¬ 
tive within the country, and made prisoner within 
a fortress as soon as possible. In consequence, the 
coast was sedulously watched to prevent his escape, 
and the country widely searched, the houses of 
known royalists being particularly placed under sur¬ 
veillance ; a large reward was offered for the arrest 
of the fugitive; the party of the Parliament was 
everywhere on the alert for him; only the good 
faith and sound judgment of his friends kept him 
from the hands of his foes. 

At Hele House, the fugitive was near the -Sussex 
coast, and his friends hoped that a passage to France 
might be secured from some of its small ports. They 
succeeded at length. On October 13, in early morn¬ 
ing, the prince, with a few loyal companions, left his 
last hiding-place. They took dogs with them, as if 
they were off for a hunting excursion to the downs. 

That night they spent at Hambledon, in Hamp¬ 
shire. Colonel Gunter, one of the party, led the 
way to the house of his brother-in-law, though with¬ 
out notifying him of his purpose. The master of 
the house was absent, but returned while the party 
were at supper, and was surprised to find a group 
of hilarious guests around his table. Colonel Gunter 
was among them, however, and explained that he 
had taken the privilege of kinship to use his house 
as his own. 

The worthy squire, who loved good cheer and good 
society, was nothing loath to join this lively com¬ 
pany, though in his first surprise to find his house 


THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 277 

invaded a round Cavalier oath broke from his lips. 
To his astonishment, he was taken to task for this 
by a crop-haired member of the company, who re¬ 
proved him in true Puritan phrase for his profanity. 

“ Whom have you here, Gunter ?” the squire asked 
his brother-in-law. “ This fellow is not of your sort. 
I warrant me the canting chap is some round-headed 
rogue’s son.” 

“Not a bit of it,” answered the colonel. “He is 
true Cavalier, though he does wear his hair some¬ 
what of the shortest, and likes not oaths. He’s one 
of us, I promise you.” 

“ Then here’s your health, brother Eoundhead!” 
exclaimed the host, heartily, draining a brimming 
glass of ale to his unknown guest. 

The prince, before the feast was over, grew gay 
enough to prove that he was no Puritan, though he 
retained sufficient caution in his cups not further to 
arouse his worthy host’s suspicions. The next day 
they reached a small fishing-village, then known as 
Brighthelmstone, now grown into the great town of 
Brighton. Here lay the vessel which had been en¬ 
gaged. The master of the craft, Anthony Tattersall 
by name, with the merchant who had engaged his 
vessel, supped with the party at the village inn. It 
was a jovial meal. The prince, glad at the near 
approach of safety, allowed himself some freedom 
of speech. Captain Tattersall watched him closely 
throughout the meal. After supper he drew his 
merchant friend aside, and said to him,— 

“ You have not dealt fairly with me in this busi¬ 
ness. You have paid me a good price to carry over 

24 


278 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


that gentleman ; I do not complain of that; but you 
should have been more open. He is the king, as I 
very well know.” 

“ You are very much mistaken, captain,” protested 
the merchant, nervously. “ What has put such non¬ 
sense into your pate ?” 

“ I am not mistaken,” persisted the captain. “ He 
took my ship in ’48, with other fishing-craft of this 
port, when he commanded his father’s fleet. I know 
his face too well to be deceived. But don’t be 
troubled at that; I think I do my God and my 
country good service in preserving the king; and 
by the grace of God, I will venture my life and all 
for him, and set him safely on shore, if I can, in 
France.” 

Happily for Charles, he had found a friend instead 
of a foe in this critical moment of his adventure. 
He found another, for the mariner was not the only 
one who knew his face. As he stood by the fire, 
with his palm resting on the back of a chair, the 
inn-keeper came suddenly up and kissed his hand. 

“God bless you wheresoever you go!” he said, 
fervently. “ I do not doubt, before I die, to be a 
lord, and my wife a lady.” 

Charles burst into a hearty laugh at this ambi¬ 
tious remark of his host. He had been twice dis¬ 
covered within the hour, after a month and a half 
of impunity. Yet he felt that he could put full 
trust in these worthy men, and slept soundly that 
last night on English soil. 

At five o’clock of the next morning, he, with Lord 
Wilmot., his constant companion, went on board the 


THE ADVENTURES OE A ROYAL FUGITIVE. 279 

little sixty-ton craft, which lay in Shoreham harbor, 
waiting the tide to put to sea. By daybreak they 
were on the waves. The prince was resting in the 
cabin, when in came Captain Tattersall, kissed his 
hand, professed devotion to his interests, and sug¬ 
gested a course for him to pursue. 

His crew, he said, had been shipped for the Eng¬ 
lish port of Poole. To head for France might cause 
suspicion. He advised Charles to represent himself 
as a merchant who was in debt and afraid of arrest 
in England, and who wished to reach France to col¬ 
lect money due him at Eouen. If he would tell this 
story to the sailors, and gain their good-will, it might 
save future trouble. 

Charles entered freely into this conspiracy, went 
on deck, talked affably with the crew, told them the 
story concocted by the captain, and soon had them 
so fully on his side, that they joined him in begging 
the captain to change his course and land his pas¬ 
sengers in France. Captain Tattersall demurred 
somewhat at this, but soon let himself be convinced, 
and headed his ship for the Gallic coast. 

The wind was fair, the weather fine. Land was 
sighted before noon of the 16th. At one o’clock 
the prince and Lord Wilmot were landed at Fecamp, 
a small French port. They had distanced the blood¬ 
hounds of the Parliament, and were safe on foreign 
soil. 


CROMWELL AND THE PARLIA¬ 
MENT. 


The Parliament of England had defeated and put 
an end to the king; it remained for Cromwell to 
put an end to the Parliament. “The Rump,” the 
remnant of the old Parliament was derisively called. 
What was left of that great body contained little of 
its honesty and integrity, much of its pride and in- 
competency. The members remaining had become 
infected with the wild notion that they were the 
governing power in England, and instead of pre¬ 
paring to disband themselves they introduced a bill 
for the disbanding of the army. They had not 
yet learned of what stuff Oliver Cromwell was 
made. 

A bill had been passed, it is true, for the dissolu¬ 
tion of the Parliament, but in the discussion of how 
the “New Representative” was to be chosen it be¬ 
came plainly evident that the members of the Rump 
intended to form part of it, without the formality of 
re-election. A struggle for power seemed likely to 
arise between the Parliament and the army. It 
could have but one ending, with a man like Oliver 
Cromwell at the head of the latter. The officers 
demanded that Parliament should immediately dis- 
280 



OLIVER CROMWELL 





CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. 


281 


solve. The members resolutely refused. Cromwell 
growled his comments. 

“As for the members of this Parliament,” he said, 
“ the army begins to take them in disgust.” 

There was ground for it, he continued, in their 
selfish greed, their interference with law and justice, 
the scandalous lives of many of the members, and, 
above all, their plain intention to keep themselves in 
power. 

“ There is little to hope for from such men for a 
settlement of the nation,” he concluded. 

The war with Holland precipitated the result. 
This war acted as a barometer for the Parliament. 
It was a naval combat. In the first meeting of the 
two fleets the Hutch were defeated, and the mercury 
of Parliamentarian pride rose. In the next combat 
Yan Tromp, the veteran Hutch admiral, drove Blake 
with a shattered fleet into the Thames. Yan Tromp 
swept the Channel in triumph, with a broom at his 
masthead. The hopes of the members went down to 
zero. They agreed to disband in November. Crom¬ 
well promised to reduce the army. But Blake put 
to sea again, fought Yan Tromp in a four days’ run¬ 
ning fight, and won the honors of the combat. Up 
again went the mercury of Parliamentary hope and 
pride. The members determined to continue in 
power, and not only claimed the right to remain 
members of the new Parliament, but even to revise 
the returns of the elected members, and decide for 
themselves if they would have them as fellows. 

The issue was now sharply drawn between army 
and Parliament. The officers me* ind demanded that 

24 * 


282 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Parliament should at once dissolve, and let the 
Council of State manage the new elections. A con¬ 
ference was held between officers and members, at 
Cromwell’s house, on April 19, 1653. It ended in 
nothing. The members were resolute. 

“Our charge,” said Haslerig, arrogantly, “cannot 
be transferred to any one.” 

The conference adjourned till the next morning, 
Sir Harry Yane engaging that no action should be 
taken till it met again. Yet when it met the next 
morning the leading members of Parliament were 
absent, Yane among them. Their absence was sus¬ 
picious. Were they pushing the bill through the 
House in defiance of the army ? 

Cromwell was present,—“ in plain black clothes, 
and gray worsted stockings,”—a plain man, but one 
not safe to trifle with. The officers waited a while for 
the members. They did not come. Instead there 
came word that they were in their seats in the House, 
busily debating the bill that was to make them rulers 
of the nation without consent of the people, hurrying 
it rapidly through its several stages. If left alone 
they would soon make it a law. 

Then the man who had hurled Charles I. from his 
throne lost his patience. This, in his opinion, had 
gone far enough. Since it had come to a question 
whether a self-elected Parhament, or the army to 
which England owed her freedom, should hold the 
balance of power, Cromwell was not likely to hesi¬ 
tate. 

“ It is contrary to common honesty!” he broke out, 
angrily. 


CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. 283 

Leaving Whitehall, he set out for the House of 
Parliament, bidding a company of musketeers to fol¬ 
low him. He entered quietly, leaving his soldiers 
outside. The House now contained no more than 
fifty-three members. Sir Harry Yane was addressing 
this fragment of a Parliament with a passionate 
harangue in favor of the bill. Cromwell sat for 
some time in silence, listening to his speech, his only 
words being to his neighbor, St. John. 

“ I am come to do what grieves me to the heart,” 
he said. 

Yane pressed tne House to waive its usual forms 
and pass the bill at once. 

“ The time has come,” said Cromwell to Harrison, 
whom he had beckoned over to him. 

“ Think well,” answered Harrison j “ it is a danger¬ 
ous work.” 

The man of fate subsided into silence again. A 
quarter of an hour more passed. Then the question 
was put “ that this bill do now pass.” 

Cromwell rose, took off his hat, and spoke. His 
words were strong. Beginning with commendation 
of the Parliament for what it had done for the pub¬ 
lic good, he went on to charge the present members 
with acts of injustice, delays of justice, self-interest, 
and similar faults, his tone rising higher as he spoke 
until it had grown very hot and indignant. 

“ Your hour is come; the Lord hath done with 
you,” he added. 

“ It is a strange language, this,” cried one of the 
members, springing up hastily; “ unusual this within 
the walls of Parliament. And from a trusted servant 


284 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


too; and one whom we have so highly honored; 
and one-” 

“ Come, come,” cried Cromwell, in the tone in which 
he would have commanded his army to charge, “ we 
have had enough of this.” He strode furiously into 
the middle of the chamber, clapped on his hat, and 
exclaimed, “ I will put an end to your prating.” 

He continued speaking hotly and rapidly, “ stamp¬ 
ing the floor with his feet” in his rage, the words 
rolling from him in a fury. Of these words we only 
know those with which he ended. 

“ It is not fit that you should sit here any longer! 
You should give place to better men! You are no 
Parliament!” came from him in harsh and broken 
exclamations. “ Call them in,” he said, briefly, to 
Harrison. 

At the word of command a troop of some thirty 
musketeers marched into the chamber. Grim fellows 
they were, dogs of war,—the men of the Rump 
could not face this argument; it was force arrayed 
against law,—or what called itself law,—wrong 
against wrong, for neither army nor Parliament truly 
represented the people, though just then the army 
seemed its most rightful representative. 

“ I say you are no Parliament!” roared the lord- 
general, hot with anger. “ Some of you are drunk¬ 
ards.” His eye fell on a bottle-loving member. 
“ Some of you are lewd livers; living in open con¬ 
tempt of God’s commandments.” His hot gaze 
flashed on Henry Marten and Sir Peter Wentworth. 
“ Following your own greedy appetites and the devil’s 
commandments; corrupt, unjust persons, scandalous 



CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. 285 

to the profession of the gospel: how can you be a 
Parliament for God’s people ? Depart, I say, and 
let us have done with you. In the name of God— 
go!” 

These words were like bomb-shells exploded in the 
chamber of Parliament. Such a scene had never 
before and has never since been seen in the House of 
Commons. The members were all on their feet, some 
white with terror, some red with indignation. Yane 
fearlessly faced the irate general. 

“ Your action,” he said, hotly, “ is against all right 
and all honor.” 

“Ah, Sir Harry Yane, Sir Harry Yane,” retorted 
Cromwell, bitterly, “you might have prevented all 
this; but you are a juggler, and have no common 
honesty. The Lord deliver me from Sir Harry 
Yane!” 

The retort was a just one. Yane had attempted 
to usurp the government. Cromwell turned to the 
speaker, who obstinately clung to his seat, declaring 
that he would not yield it except to force. 

“ Fetch him down!” roared the general. 

“ Sir, I will lend you a hand,” said Harrison. 

Speaker Lenthall left the chair. One man could 
not resist an army. Through the door glided, silent 
as ghosts, the members of Parliament. 

“It is you that have forced me to this,” said 
Cromwell, with a shade of regret in his voice. “ I 
have sought the Lord night and day, that He would 
rather slay me than put upon me the doing of this 
work.” 

He had, doubtless; he was a man of deep piety and 


286 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


intense bigotry; but the Lord’s answer, it is to bo 
feared, came out of the depths of his own conscious¬ 
ness. Men like Cromwell call upon God, but answer 
for Him themselves. 

“ What shall be done with this bauble ?” said t«he 
general, lifting the sacred mace, the sign-manual of 
government by the representatives of the people. 
“ Take it away!” he finished, handing it to a mus¬ 
keteer. 

His flashing eyes followed the retiring members 
until they all had left the House. Then the mus¬ 
keteers filed out, followed by Cromwell and Harrison. 
The door was locked, and the key and mace carried 
away by Colonel Otley. 

A few hours afterwards the Council of State, the 
executive committee of Parliament, was similarly 
dissolved by the lord-general, who, in person, bade its 
members to depart. 

“We have heard,” cried John Bradshaw, one of 
its members, “ what you have done this morning at 
the House, and in some hours all England will hear 
it. But you mistake, sir, if you think the Parlia¬ 
ment dissolved. Ho power on earth can dissolve the 
Parliament but itself, be sure of that.” 

The people did hear it,—and sustained Cromwell 
in his action. Of the two sets of usurpers, the army 
and a non-representative Parliament, they preferred 
the former. 

“We did not hear a dog bark at their going,” said 
Cromwell, afterwards. 

It was not the first time in history that the army 
had overturned representative government. In this 


CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT. 


287 


case it was not done with the design of establishing 
a despotism. Cromwell was honest in his purpose of 
reforming the administration, and establishing a Par¬ 
liamentary government. But he had to do with in¬ 
tractable elements. He called a constituent conven¬ 
tion, giving to it the duty of paving the way to a 
constitutional Parliament. Instead of this, the con¬ 
vention began the work of reforming the constitu¬ 
tion, and proposed such radical changes that the 
lord-general grew alarmed. Doubtless his musketeers 
would have dealt with the convention as they had 
done with the Pump Parliament, had it not fallen to 
pieces through it own dissensions. It handed back 
to Cromwell the power it had received from him. 
He became the lord protector of the realm. The 
revolutionary government had drifted, despite itself, 
into a despotism. A despotism it was to remain 
while Cromwell lived. 


THE RELIEF OF LONDON¬ 
DERRY. 


Frightful was the state of Londonderry. “Iso 
surrender” was the ultimatum of its inhabitants, 
“blockade and starvation” the threat of the be¬ 
siegers ; the town was surrounded, the river closed, 
relief seemed hopeless, life, should the furious be¬ 
siegers break in, equally hopeless. Far off, in the 
harbor of Lough Foyle, could be seen the English 
ships. Thirty vessels lay there, laden with men and 
provisions, but they were able to come no nearer. 
The inhabitants could see them, but the sight only 
aggravated their misery. Plenty so near at hand! 
Death and destitution in their midst! Frightful, 
indeed, was their extremity. 

The Foyle, the river leading to the town, was 
fringed with hostile forts and batteries, and its chan¬ 
nel barricaded. Several boats laden with stone had 
been sunk in the channel. A row of stakes was 
driven into the bottom of the stream. A boom was 
formed of trunks of fir-trees, strongly bound together, 
and fastened by great cables to the shore. Relief 
from the fleet, with the river thus closed against it, 
seemed impossible. Yet scarcely two days’ supplies 
288 


THE BELIEF OF LONDONDERRY. 


289 


were left in the town, and without hasty relief star¬ 
vation or massacre seemed the only alternatives. 

Let us relate the occasion of this siege. James 
II. had been driven from England, and William of 
Orange was on the throne. In his effort to recover 
his kingdom, James sought Ireland, where the Cath¬ 
olic peasantry were on his side. His appearance was 
the signal for fifty thousand peasants to rise in arms, 
and for the Protestants to fly from threatened mas¬ 
sacre. They knew their fate should they fall into 
the hands of the half-savage peasants, mad with 
years of misrule. 

In the north, seven thousand English fugitives 
fled to Londonderry, and took shelter behind the 
weak wall, manned by a few old guns, and without 
even a ditch for defence, which formed the only 
barrier between them and their foes. Around this 
town gathered twenty-five thousand besiegers, con¬ 
fident of quick success. But the weakness of the 
battlements was compensated for by the stoutness 
of the hearts within. So fierce were the sallies of 
the desperate seven thousand, so severe the loss of 
the besiegers in their assaults, that the attempt to 
carry the place by storm was given up, and a block¬ 
ade substituted. From April till the end of July 
this continued, the condition of the besieged daily 
growing worse, the food-supply daily growing less. 
Such was the state of affairs at the date with which 
we are specially concerned. * 

Inside the town, at that date, the destitution had 
grown heart-rending. The fire of the enemy was 
kept up more briskly than ever, but famine and dis- 

II.—N t 26 


290 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


ease killed more than cannon-balls. The soldiers of 
the garrison were so weak from privation that they 
could scarcely stand ; yet they repelled every attack, 
and repaired every breach in the walls as fast as 
made. The damage done by day was made good at 
night. For the garrison there remained a small 
supply of grain, which was given out by mouthfuls, 
and there was besides a considerable store of salted 
hides, which they gnawed for lack of better food. 
The stock of animals had been reduced to nine 
horses, and these so lean and gaunt that it seemed 
useless to kill them for food. 

The townsmen were obliged to feed on dogs and 
rats, an occasional small fish caught in the river, 
and similar sparse supplies. They died by hundreds. 
Disease aided starvation in carrying them off. The 
living were too few and too weak to bury the dead. 
Bodies were left unburied, and a deadly and revolt¬ 
ing stench filled the air. That there was secret dis¬ 
content and plottings for surrender may well be 
believed. But no such feeling dared display itself 
openly. Stubborn resolution and vigorous defiance 
continued the public tone. “No surrender” was the 
general cry, even in that extremity of distress. And 
to this voices added, in tones of deep significance, 
“ First the horses and hides; then the prisoners; 
and then each other.” 

Such was the state of affairs on July 28, 1689. 
Two days’ very sparse rations alone remained for 
the garrison. At the end of that time all must end. 
Yet still in the distance could be seen the masts of 
the ships, holding out an unfulfilled promise of relief; 


THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY. 291 

still hope was not quite dead in the hearts of the 
besieged. Efforts had been made to send word to 
the town from the fleet. One swimmer who at¬ 
tempted to pass the boom was drowned. Another 
was caught and hanged. On the 13th of July a 
letter from the fleet, sewed up in a cloth button, 
reached the commander of the garrison. It was 
from Kirke, the general in command of the party 
of relief, and promised speedy aid. But a fortnight 
and more had passed since then, and still the fleet 
lay inactive in Lough Foyle, nine miles away, visible 
from the summit of the Cathedral, yet now tending 
rather to aggravate the despair than to sustain the 
hopes of the besieged. 

The sunset hour of July 28 was reached. Ser¬ 
vices had been held that afternoon in the Cathedral, 
—services in which doubtless the help of God was 
despairingly invoked, since that of man seemed in 
vain. The heart-sick people left the doors, and 
were about to disperse to their foodless homes, when 
a loud cry of hope and gladness came from the look¬ 
out in the tower above their heads. 

“ They are coming!” was the stirring cry. ‘ 4 The 
ships are coming up the river! I can see their sails 
plainly ! Belief is coming!” 

How bounded the hearts of those that heard this 
gladsome cry! The listeners dispersed, cariying 
the glad news to every corner of the town. Others 
came in hot haste, eager to hear further reports 
from the lookout tower. The town, lately so quiet 
and depressed, was suddenly filled with activity. 
Hope swelled every heart, new life ran in every vein ; 


292 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


the news was like a draught of wine that gave fresh 
spirit to the most despairing soul. 

And now other tidings came. There was a busy 
stir in the camp of the besiegers. They were crowd¬ 
ing to the river-banks. As far as the eye could see, 
the stream was lined. The daring ships had a gaunt¬ 
let of fire to run. Their attempt seemed hopeless, 
indeed. The river was low. The channel which 
they would have to follow ran near the left bank, 
where numerous batteries had been planted. They 
surely would never succeed. Yet still they came, 
and still the lookout heralded their movements to 
the excited multitude below. 

The leading ship was the Mountjoy, a merchant- 
vessel laden heavily with provisions. Its captain 
was Micaiah Browning, a native of Londonderry. 
He had long advised such an attempt, but the general 
in command had delayed until positive orders came 
from England that something must be done. 

On hearing of this, Browning immediately volun¬ 
teered. He was eager to succor his fellow-townsmen. 
Andrew Douglas, captain of the Phoenix, a vessel 
laden with meal from Scotland, was willing and anx¬ 
ious to join in the enterprise. As an escort to these 
two merchantmen came the Dartmouth, a thirty-six- 
gun frigate, its commander John Leake, afterwards 
an admiral of renown. 

IJp the stream they came, the Dartmouth in the 
lead, returning the fire of the forts with effect, 
pushing steadily onward, with the merchantmen 
closely in the rear. At length the point of peril was 
reached. The boom extended across the stream, 


THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY. 


293 


seemingly closing all further passage. But that 
remained to be seen. The Mountjoy took the lead, 
all its sails spread, a fresh breeze distending the 
canvas, and rushed head on at the boom. 

A few minutes of exciting suspense followed, then 
the great barricade was struck, strained to its utmost, 
and, with a rending sound, gave way. So great 
was the shock that the Mountjoy rebounded and 
stuck in the mud. A yell of triumph came from the 
Irish who crowded the banks. They rushed to their 
boats, eager to board the disabled vessel; but a 
broadside from the Dartmouth sent them back in 
disordered flight. 

In a minute more the Phoenix, which had followed 
close, sailed through the breach which the Mountjoy 
had made, and was past the boom. Immediately 
afterwards the Mountjoy began to move in her bed 
of mud. The tide was rising. In a few minutes 
she was afloat and under way again, safely passing 
through the barrier of broken stakes and spars. 
But her brave commander was no more. A shot 
from one of the batteries had struck and killed him, 
when on the very verge of gaining the highest honor 
that man could attain,—that of saving his native 
town from the horrors of starvation or massacre. 

While this was going on, the state of feeling of 
the lean and hungry multitude within the town was 
indescribable. Might had fallen before the ships 
reached the boom. The lookout could no longer seo 
and report their movements. Intense was the 
suspense. Minutes that seemed hours passed by. 
Then, in the distance, the flash of guns could be 

25 * 


294 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


seen The sound of artillery came from afar to the 
ears of the expectant citizens. But the hope which 
this excited went down when the shout of triumph 
rose from the besiegers as the Mountjoy grounded. 
It was taken up and repeated from rank to rank to 
the very walls of the city, and the hearts of the be¬ 
sieged sank dismally. This cry surely meant failure. 
The miserable people grew livid with fear. There 
was unutterable anguish in their eyes, as they gazed 
with despair into each other’s pallid faces. 

A half-hour more passed. The suspense continued. 
Yet the shouts of triumph had ceased. Did it mean 
repulse or victory? “Victory! victory!” for now 
a spectral vision of sails could be seen, drawing near 
the town. They grew nearer and plainer; dark 
hulls showed below them; the vessels were coming 1 
the town was saved! 

Wild was the cry of glad greeting that went up 
from thousands of throats, soul-inspiring the cheers 
that came, softened by distance, back from the ships. 
It was ten o’clock^at night. The whole population 
had gathered at the quay. In came the ships. 
Loud and fervent were the cheers and welcoming 
cries. In a few minutes more the vessels had touched 
the wharves, well-fed sailors and starved townsmen 
were fraternizing, and the long months of misery 
and woe were forgotten in the intense joy of that 
supreme moment of relief. 

Many hands now made short work. Wasted and 
weak as were the townsmen, hope gave them strength. 
A screen of casks filled with earth was rapidly built 
up to protect the landing-place from the hostile bat* 


THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY. 295 

teries on the other side of the river. Then the un¬ 
loading began. The eyes of the starving inhabitants 
distended with joy as they saw barrel after barrel 
rolled ashore, until six thousand bushels of meal lay 
on the wharf. Great cheeses came next, beef-casks, 
flitches of bacon, kegs of butter, sacks of peas and 
biscuit, until the quay was piled deep with provi¬ 
sions. 

One may imagine with what tears of joy the sol¬ 
diers and people ate their midnight repast that 
night. Not many hours before the ration to each 
man of the garrison had been half a pound of tallow 
and three-quarters of a pound of salted hide. Now 
to each was served out three pounds of flour, two 
pounds of beef, and a pint of peas. There was no 
sleep for the remainder of the night, either within 
or without the walls. The bonfires that blazed along 
the whole circuit of the walls told the joy within the 
town. The incessant roar of guns told the rage 
without it. Peals of bells from the church-towers 
answered the Irish cannon ; shouts of triumph from 
the walls silenced the cries of anger from the batter¬ 
ies. It was a conflict of joy and rage. 

Three days more the batteries continued to roar. 
But on the night of July 31 flames were seen to 
issue from the Irish camp; on the morning of Au¬ 
gust 1 a line of scorched and smoking ruins re¬ 
placed the lately-occupied huts, and along the Foyle 
went a long column of pikes and standards, mark¬ 
ing the retreat of the besieging army. 

The retreat became a rout. The mon of Ennis¬ 
killen charged the retreating army at Newtown 


296 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Butler, struggling through a bog to fall on double 
their number, whom they drove in a panic before 
them. The panic spread through the whole army. 
Horse and foot, they fled. Hot until they had reached 
Dublin, then occupied by King James, did the re 
treat stop, and confidence return to the baffled be¬ 
siegers of Londonderry. 

Thus ended the most memorable siege in the his¬ 
tory of the British islands. It had lasted one hun¬ 
dred and five days. Of the seven thousand men of 
the garrison but about three thousand were left. 
Of the besiegers probably more had fallen than the 
whole number of the garrison. 

To-day Londonderry is in large measure a monu¬ 
ment to its great siege. The wall has been carefully 
preserved, the summit of the ramparts forming a 
pleasant walk, the bastions being turned into pretty 
little gardens. Many of the old culverins, which 
threw lead-covered bricks among the Irish ranks, 
have been preserved, and may still be seen among 
the leaves and flowers. The cathedral is filled with 
relics and trophies, and over its altar may be ob¬ 
served the French flag-staffs, taken by the garrison in 
a desperate sally, the flags they once bore long since 
reduced to dust. Two anniversaries are still kept,— 
that of the day on which the gates were closed, that 
of the day on which the siege was raised,—salutes, 
processions, banquets, addresses, sermons signalizing 
these two great events in the history of a city which 
passed through so frightful a baptism of war, but has 
ever since been the abode of peac e. 


THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR. 


In the great forest of Braemar, in the Highlands 
of Scotland, was gathered a large party of hunters, 
chiefs, and clansmen, all dressed in the Highland cos¬ 
tume, and surrounded by extensive preparations for 
the comfort and enjoyment of all concerned. Sel¬ 
dom, indeed, had so many great lords been gathered 
for such an occasion. On the invitation of the Earl 
of Mar, within whose domain the hunt was to take 
place, there had come together the Marquises of 
Huntly and Tulliebardine, the Earls of Nithsdale, 
Marischal, Traquair, Errol, and several others, and 
numerous viscounts, lords, and chiefs of clans, many 
of the most important of the nobility and clan lead¬ 
ers of the Highlands being present. 

With these great lords were hosts of clansmen, all 
attired in the picturesque dress of the Highlands, 
and so numerous that the convocation had the ap¬ 
pearance of a small army, the sport of hunting in 
those days being often practised on a scale of mag¬ 
nificence resembling war. The red deer of the 
Highlands were the principal game, and the method 
of hunting usually employed could not be conducted 
without the aid of a large body of men. Around 
the broad extent of wild forest land and mountain 

297 


298 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


wilderness, which formed the abiding-place of these 
animals, a circuit of hunters many miles in extent 
was formed. This circuit was called the tinchel. 
Upon a given signal, the hunters composing the 
circle began to move inwards, rousing the deer from 
their lairs, and driving them before them, with such 
other animals as the forest might contain. 

Onward moved the hunters, the circle steadily 
growing less, and the terrified beasts becoming more 
crowded together, until at length they were driven 
down some narrow defile, along whose course the 
lords and gentlemen had been posted, lying in wait 
for the coming of the deer, and ready to show their 
marksmanship by shooting such of the bucks as were 
in season. 

The hunt with which we are at present concerned, 
however, had other purposes than the killing of 
deer. The latter ostensible object concealed more 
secret designs, and to these we may confine our at¬ 
tention. It was now near the end of August, 1715. 
At the beginning of that month, the Earl of Mar, in 
company with General Hamilton and Colonel Hay, 
had embarked at Gravesend, on the Thames, all in 
disguise and under assumed names. To keep their 
secret the better, they had taken passage on a coal- 
sloop, agreeing to work their way like common sea¬ 
men ; and in this humble guise they continued until 
Newcastle was reached, where a vessel in which they 
could proceed with more comfort was engaged. 
From this craft they landed at the small port of 
Elie, on the coast of Fife, a country then well filled 
with Jacobites, or adherents to the cause of the 


THE HUNTING OF BRAE MAR. 


299 


Stuart princes. Such were the mysterious prelim- 
inary steps towards the hunting-party in the forest 
of Braemar. 

In truth, the hunt was little more than a pretence. 
While the clansmen were out forming the tinchel, the 
lords were assembled in secret convocation, in which 
the Earl of Mar eloquently counselled resistance to 
the rule of King George, and the taking of arms in 
the cause of James Francis Edward, son of the exiled 
James II., and, as he argued, the only true heir to the 
English throne. He told them that he had been 
promised abundant aid in men and money from 
France, and assured them that a rising in Scotland 
would be followed by a general insurrection in Eng¬ 
land against the Hanoverian dynasty. He is said 
xo have shown letters from the Stuart prince, the 
Chevalier de St. George, as he was called, making the 
earl his lieutenant-general and commander-in-chief 
of the armies of Scotland. 

How many red deer were killed on this occasion 
no one can say. The noble guests of Mar had other 
things to think of than of singling out fat bucks. 
Hone of them opposed the earl in his arguments, and 
in the end it was agreed that all should return home, 
raise what forces they could by the 3d of September, 
and meet again on that day at Aboyne, in Aberdeen¬ 
shire, where it would be settled how they were to take 
the field. 

Thus ended that celebrated hunt of Braemar, which 
was destined to bring tears and blood to many a 
household in Scotland, through loyal devotion to a 
prince who was not worth the sacrifice, and at the 


300 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


bidding of an earl who was considered by many as 
too versatile in disposition to be fully trusted. An 
anecdote is given in evidence of this opinion. The 
castle of Braemar was, as a result of the hunt, so 
overflowing with guests, that many of the gentlemen 
of secondary importance could not be accommodated 
with beds, but were forced to spend the night around 
the kitchen fire,—a necessity then considered no sen 
ous matter by the hardy Scotch. But such was not 
the opinion of all present. An English footman, a 
domestic of the earl, came pushing among the gentle¬ 
men, complaining bitterly at having to sit up all night, 
and saying that rather than put up with much of 
this he would go back to his own country and turn 
Whig. As to his Toryism, however, he comforted 
himself with the idea that he served a lord who was 
especially skilful in escaping danger. 

“ Let my lord alone,” he said; “ if he finds it 
necessary, he can turn cat-in-pan with any man in 
England.” 

While these doings were in progress in the High¬ 
lands, the Jacobites were no less active in the Low¬ 
lands, and an event took place in the metropolis of 
Scotland which showed that the spirit of disaffection 
had penetrated within its walls. This was an attempt 
to take the castle of Edinburgh by surprise,—an ex¬ 
ploit parallel in its risky and daring character with 
those told of the Douglas and other bold lords at an 
earlier period. 

The design of scaling this almost inaccessible strong¬ 
hold was made by a Mr. Arthur, who had been an 
ensign in the Slots’ Guards and quartered in the 


EDINBURGH CASTLE. 































THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR. 


301 


castle, and was, therefore, familiar with its interior 
arrangement. He found means to gain over, by cash 
and promises, a sergeant and two privates, who agreed 
that, when on duty as sentinels on the walls over the 
precipice to the north, they would draw up rope-lad¬ 
ders, and fasten them by grappling-irons at their top 
to the battlements of the castle. This done, it would 
be easy for an armed party to scale the walls and 
make themselves masters of the stronghold. Arthur’s 
plan did not end with the mere capture of the for¬ 
tress. He had arranged a set of signals with the 
Earl of Mar, consisting of a beacon displayed at a 
fixed point on the castle walls, three rounds of artil¬ 
lery, and a succession of fires flashing the news from 
hill-top to hill-top. The earl, thus apprised of the 
success of the adventurers, was to hasten south with 
all the force he could bring, and take possession of 
Edinburgh. 

The scheme was well devised, and might have suc¬ 
ceeded but for one of those unlucky chances which 
have defeated so many well-laid plans. Agents in the 
enterprise could be had in abundance. Fifty High¬ 
landers were selected, picked men from Lord Drum • 
mond’s estates in Perthshire. To these were added 
fifty others chosen from the Jacobites of Edinburgh. 
Drummond, otherwise known as MacGregor, of Ba 
haldie, was given the command. The scheme was one 
of great moment. Its success would give the Earl of 
Mar a large supply of money, arms, and ammunition, 
deposited in the fortress, and control of the greater 
part of Scotland, while affording a ready means of 
communication ■with the English malcontents. 

26 " 


302 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Unluckily for the conspirators, they had more 
courage than prudence. Eighteen of the younger 
men were, on the night fixed, amusing themselves 
with drinking in a public-house, and talked with such 
freedom that the hostess discovered their secret. 
She told a friend that the party consisted of some 
young gentlemen who were having their hair pow¬ 
dered in order to go to an attack on the castle. 
Arthur, the originator of the enterprise, also made 
what proved to be a dangerous revelation. He en¬ 
gaged his brother, a doctor, in the scheme. The 
brother grew so nervous and low-spirited that his 
wife, seeing that something was amiss with him, gave 
him no rest until he had revealed the secret. She, 
perhaps to save her husband, perhaps from Whig 
proclivities, instantly sent an anonymous letter to 
Sir Adam Cockburn, lord justice-clerk of Edinburgh, 
apprising him of the plot. He at once sent the in¬ 
telligence to the castle. His messenger reached there 
at a late hour, and had much difficulty in gaining 
admittance. When he did so, the deputy-governor 
saw fit to doubt the improbable tidings sent him. 
The only precaution he took was to direct that the 
rounds and patrols should be made with great care. 
With this provision for the safety of the castle, he 
went to bed, doubtless with the comfortable feeling 
that he had done all that could be expected of a 
reasonable man in so improbable a case. 

While this was going on, the storming-party had 
collected at the church-yard of the West Kirk, and 
from there proceeded to the chosen place at the foot 
of the castle walls. There had been a serious failure. 


THE HUNTING OP BRAEMAR. 


303 


however, in their preparations. They had with them 
a part of the rope-ladders on which their success 
depended, but he who was to have been there with 
the remainder—Charles Forbes, an Edinburgh mer¬ 
chant, who had attended to their making—was not 
present, and they awaited him in vain. 

Without him nothing could be done; but, impatient 
at the delay, the party made their way with difficulty 
up the steep cliff, and at length reached the foot of 
the castle wall. Here they found on duty one of the 
sentinels whom they had bribed; but he warned 
them to make haste, saying that he was to be relieved 
at twelve o’clock, and after that hour he could give 
them no aid. 

The affair was growing critical. The midnight 
hour was fast approaching, and Forbes was still 
absent. Drummond, the leader, had the sentinel to 
draw up the ladder they had with them and fasten 
it to the battlements, to see if it were long enough 
for their purpose. He did so ; but it proved to be 
more than a fathom short. 

And now happened an event fatal to their enter¬ 
prise. The information sent the deputy-governor, 
and his direction that the patrols should be alert, had 
the effect of having them make the rounds earlier 
than usual. They came at half-past eleven instead 
of at twelve. The sentinel, hearing their approach¬ 
ing steps, had but one thing to do for his own safety. 
He cried out to the party below, with an oath,— 

“ Here come the rounds I have been telling you of 
this half-hour; you have ruined both yourselves and 
me; I can serve you no longer.” 


304 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


With these words, he loosened the grappling-irons 
and fluug down the ladders, and, with the natural 
impulse to cover his guilty knowledge of the affair, 
fired his musket, with a loud cry of “ Enemies!” 

This alarm cry forced the storming-party to fly 
with all speed. The patrol saw them from the wall 
and fired on them as they scrambled hastily down 
the rocks. One of them, an old man, Captain 
McLean, rolled down the cliff and was much hurt. 
He was taken prisoner by a party of the burgher 
guard, whom the justice-clerk had sent to patrol the 
outside of the walls. They took also three young 
men, who protested that they were there by accident, 
and had nothing to do with the attempt. The rest 
of the party escaped. In their retreat they met 
Charles Forbes, coming tardily up with the ladders 
which, a quarter of an hour earlier, might have made 
them masters of the castle, but which were now 
simply an aggravation. 

It does not seem that any one was punished for 
this attempt, beyond the treacherous sergeant, who 
was tried, found guilty, and hanged, and the deputy- 
governor, who was deprived of his office and im¬ 
prisoned for some time. Ho proof could be obtained 
against any one else. 

As for the conspirators, indeed, it is probable that 
the most of them found their way to the army of 
the Earl of Mar, who was soon afterwards in the 
field at the head of some twelve thousand armed men, 
pronouncing himself the general of His Majesty 
James III.,—known to history as the “ Old Pre¬ 
tender.” 


THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR. 


305 


What followed this outbreak it is not our purpose 
to describe. It will suffice to say that Mar was more 
skilful as a conspirator than as a general, that his 
army was defeated by Argyle at SherifFmuir, and 
that, when Prince James landed in December, it was 
to find his adherents fugitives and his cause in a 
desperate state. Perceiving that success was past 
hope, he made his way back to France in the fol¬ 
lowing month, the Earl of Mar going with him, and 
thus, as his English footman had predicted, escaping 
the fate which was dealt out freely to those whom 
he had been instrumental in drawing into the out¬ 
break. Many of these paid with their lives for their 
participation in the rebellion, but Mar lived to con¬ 
tinue his plotting for a number of years afterwards, 
though it cannot be said that his later plots were 
more notable for success than the one we have 
described. 


26 * 


THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE 
CHARLES. 


It was early morning on the Hebrides, that 
crowded group of rocky islands on the west coast 
of Scotland where fish and anglers much do con 
gregate. From one of these, South Uist by name, 
a fishing-boat had put out at an early hour, and was 
now, with a fresh breeze in its sail, making its way 
swiftly over the ruffled waters of the Irish Channel. 
Its occupants, in addition to the two watermen who 
managed it, were three persons,—two women and a 
man. To all outward appearance only one of these 
was of any importance. This was a young lady of 
bright and attractive face, dressed in a plain and 
serviceable travelling-costume, but evidently of good 
birth and training. Her companions were a man 
and a maid-servant, the latter of unusual height for 
a woman, and with an embrowned and roughened 
face that indicated exposure to severe hardships of 
life and climate. The man was a thorough High¬ 
lander, red-bearded, shock-haired, and of weather¬ 
beaten aspect. 

The boat had already made a considerable distance 
from the shore when its occupants found themselves 
in near vicinity to another small craft, which was 
306 


THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 307 

moving lazily in a line parallel to the island coast. 
At a distance to right and left other boats were 
visible. The island waters seemed to be patrolled. 
As the fishing-boat came near, the craft just men¬ 
tioned shifted its course and sailed towards it. It 
was sufficiently near to show that it contained armed 
men, one of them in uniform. A hail now came 
across the waters. 

“ What boat is that ? Whom have you on board ?” 

“ A lady; on her way to Skye,” answered the boat¬ 
man. 

“ Up helm, and lay yourself alongside of us. We 
must see who you are.” 

The fishermen obeyed. They had reason to know 
that, just then, there was no other course to pursue. 
In a few minutes the two boats were riding side by 
side, lifting and falling lazily on the long Atlantic 
swell. The lady looked up at the uniformed per¬ 
sonage, who seemed an officer. 

“ My name is Flora McDonald,” she said. “ Theso 
persons are my servants. My father is in command 
of the McDonalds on South Uist. I have been visit¬ 
ing at Clanranald, and am now on my way home.” 

“ Forgive me, Miss McDonald,” said the officer, 
courteously; “ but our orders are precise; no one can 
leave the island without a pass.” 

“ I know it,” she replied, with dignity, “ and have 
provided myself. Here is my passport, signed by 
my father.” 

The officer took and ran his eye over it quickly: 
“ Flora McDonald; with two servants, Betty Bruce 
and Malcolm Ptae,” he read. His gaze moved rapidly 


308 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


over the occupants of the boat, resting for a moment 
on the bright and intelligent face of the young 
lady. 

“ This seems all right, Miss McDonald,” he said, 
respectfully, returning her the paper. “ You can 
pass. Good-by, and a pleasant journey.” 

“Many thanks,” she answered. “You should be 
successful in catching the bird that is seeking to fly 
from that island. Your net is spread wide enough.” 

“ I hardly think our bird will get through the 
meshes,” he answered, laughingly. 

In a few minutes more they were wide asunder. 
A peculiar smile rested on the face of the lady, which 
seemed reflected from the countenances of her at¬ 
tendants, but not a word was said on the subject of 
the recent incident. 

Their reticence continued until the rocky shores 
of the Isle of Skye were reached, and the boat was 
put into one of the many inlets that break its ir¬ 
regular contour. Silence, indeed, was maintained 
until they had landed on a rocky shelf, and the boat 
had pushed off on its return journey. Then Flora 
McDonald spoke. 

“ So far we are safe,” she said. “ But I confess 1 
was frightfully scared when that patrol-boat stopped 
us.” 

“ You did not look so,” said Betty Bruce, in a voice 
of masculine depth. 

“I did not dare to,” she answered. “If I had 
looked what I felt, we would never have passed. But 
let us continue our journey. We have no time to 
spare.” 


THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 


309 


It was a rocky and desolate spot on which they 
stood, the rugged rock-shelves which came to tho 
water’s edge gradually rising to high hills in the 
distance. But as they advanced inland the appear¬ 
ance of the island improved, and signs of human 
habitation appeared. They had not gone far before 
the huts of fishermen and others became visible, 
planted in little clearings among the rocks, whose 
inmates looked with eyes of curiosity on the stran¬ 
gers. This was particularly the case when they 
passed through a small village, at no great distance 
inland. Of the three persons, it was the maid-ser¬ 
vant, Betty Bruce, that attracted most attention, her 
appearance giving rise to some degree of amusement. 
Nor was this without reason. The woman was so 
ungainly in appearance, and walked with so awkward 
a stride, that the skirts which clung round her heels 
seemed a decided incumbrance to her progress. Her 
face, too, presented a roughness that gave hint of 
possibilities of a beard. She kept unobtrusively 
behind her mistress, her peculiar gait set the good- 
wives of the village whispering and laughing as they 
pointed her out. 

For several miles the travellers proceeded, follow¬ 
ing the general direction of the coast, and apparently 
endeavoring to avoid all collections of human habi¬ 
tations. Now and then, however, they met persons 
in the road, who gazed at them with the same curi¬ 
osity as those they had already passed. 

The scenery before them grew finer as they ad¬ 
vanced. Near nightfall they came near mountainous 
elevations, abutting on the sea-shore in great clifts 


BIO 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


of columnar basalt, a thousand feet and more iu 
height, over which leaped here and there waterfalls 
of great height and beauty. Their route now lay 
along the base of these cliffs, on the narrow strip of 
land between them and the sea. 

Here they paused, just as the sun was shedding its 
last rays upon the water. Seating themselves on 
some protruding boulders, they entered into conver¬ 
sation, the fair Flora’s face presenting an expression 
of doubt and trouble. 

“ I do not like the looks of the people,” she said. 
“ They watch you too closely. And we are still in 
the country of Sir Alexander, a land filled with our 
enemies. If you were only a better imitation of a 
woman.” 

“ Faith, I fear I’m but an awkward sample,” an¬ 
swered Betty, in a voice of man-like tone. “ I have 
been doing my best, but-” 

“But the lion cannot change his skin,” supplied 
the lady. “ This will not do. We must take other 
measures. But our first duty is to find the shelter 
fixed for to-night. It will not do to tarry here till it 
grows dark.” 

They rose and proceeded, following Malcolm, who 
acted as guide. The place was deserted, and Betty 
stepped out with a stride of most unmaidenly length, 
as if to gain relief from her late restraint. Her 
manner now would have revealed the secret to any 
shrewd observer. The ungainly maid-servant was 
evidently a man in disguise. 

We cannot follow their journey closely. It will 
suffice to say that the awkwardness of the assumed 



THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 


311 


Betty gave rise to suspicion on more than one occa¬ 
sion in the next day or two. It became evident that, 
if the secret of the disguised personage was not to 
be discovered, they must cease their wanderings; 
some shelter must be provided, and a safer means of 
progress be devised. 

A shelter was obtained,—one that promised 
security. In the base of the basaltic cliffs of which 
we have spoken many caverns had been excavated 
by the winter surges of the sea. In one of these, 
near the village of Portree, and concealed from too 
easy observation, the travellers found refuge. Food 
was obtained by Malcolm from the neighboring 
settlement, and some degree of comfort provided for. 
Leaving her disguised companion in this shelter, with 
Malcolm for company, Flora went on. She had 
devised a plan of procedure not without risk, but 
which seemed necessary. It was too perilous to con¬ 
tinue as they had done during the few past days. 

Leaving our travellers thus situated, we will go 
back in time to consider the events which led to this 
journey in disguise. It was now July, the year being 
1746 . On the 16th of April of the same year a fierce 
battle had been fought on Culloden moor between 
the English army under the Duke of Cumberland 
and the host of Highlanders led by Charles Edward 
Stuart, the “Young Pretender.’’ Fierce had been 
the fray, terrible the bloodshed, fatal the defeat of 
the Highland clans. Beaten and broken, they had 
fled in all directions for safety, hotly pursued by 
their victorious foes. 

Prince Charles had fought bravely on the field; 


312 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


and, after the fatal disaster, had fled—having with 
him only a few Irish officers whose good faith he 
trusted—to Gortuleg, the residence of Lord Lovat. 
If he hoped for shelter there, he found it not. He 
was overcome with distress; Lord Lovat, with fear 
and embarrassment. Ho aid was to be had from 
Lovat, and, obtaining some slight refreshment, the 
prince rode on. 

He obtained his next rest and repast at Invergarry, 
the castle of the laird of Glengarry, and continued 
his journey into the west Highlands, where he found 
shelter in a village called Glenbeisdale, near where 
he had landed on his expedition for the conquest of 
England. For nearly a year he had been in Scotland, 
pursuing a career of mingled success and defeat, and 
was now back at his original landing-place, a hope¬ 
less fugitive. Here some of the leaders of his lato 
army communicated with him . They had a thousand 
men still together, and vowed that they would not 
give up hope while there were cattle in the High¬ 
lands or meal in the Lowlands. But Prince Charles 
refused to deal with such a forlorn hope. He would 
seek France, he said, and return with a powerful 
reinforcement. VYith this answer he left the main¬ 
land, sailing for Long Island, in the Hebrides, where 
he hoped to find a French vessel. 

And now dangers, disappointments, and hardships 
surrounded the fugitive. The rebellion was at an 
end; retribution was in its full tide. The Highlands. 
were being scoured, the remnants of the defeated 
army scattered or massacred, the adherents of the 
Pretender seized, and Charles himself was sought 


THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 313 

for with unremitting activity. The islands in par¬ 
ticular were closely searched, as it was believed that 
he had fled to their shelter. His peril was extreme. 
Ho vessel was to be had. Storms, contrary winds, 
various disappointments attended him. He sought 
one hiding-place after another in Long Island and 
those adjoining, exposed to severe hardships, and 
frequently having to fly from one place of shelter to 
another. In the end he reached the island of South 
Uist, where he found a faithful friend in Clanranald, 
one of his late adherents, Here he was lodged in a 
ruined forester’s hut, situated near the summit of the 
w r ild mountain called Corradale. Even this remote 
and almost inaccessible shelter grew dangerous. 
The island was suspected, and a force of not less than 
two thousand men landed on it, with orders to search 
the interior with the closest scrutiny, while small 
war-vessels, cutters, armed boats, and the like sur¬ 
rounded the island, rendering escape by water almost 
hopeless. It was in this critical state of affairs that 
the devotion of a woman came to the rescue of the 
imperilled Prince. Flora McDonald was visiting the 
family of Clanranald. She wished to return to her 
home in Skye. At her suggestion the chief provided 
her with the attendants whom we have already 
described, her awkward maid-servant Betty Bruce 
being no less a personage than the wandering prince. 
The daring and devoted lady was step-daughter to a 
chief of Sir Alexander McDonald’s clan, who was on 
the king’s side, and in command of a section of the 
party of search. From him Flora obtained a pass¬ 
port for herself and two seivants, and was thus 
o 27 


314 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


enabled to pass in safety through the cordon of 
investing boats. No one suspected the humble- 
looking Betty Bruce as being a flying prince. And 
so it was that the bird had passed through the net 
of the fowlers, and found shelter in the island of 
Skye. 

And now we must return to the fugitives, whom 
we left concealed in a basaltic cavern on the rocky 
coast of Skye. The keen-witted Flora had devised 
a new and bold plan for the safety of her charge, no 
less a one than that of trusting the Lady Margaret 
McDonald, wife of Sir Alexander, with her danger¬ 
ous secret. This seemed like penetrating the very 
stronghold of the foe; but the women of tho 
Highlands had—most of them—a secret leaning to 
Jacobitism, and Flora felt that she could trust her 
high-born relative. 

She did so, telling Lady Margaret her story. The 
lady heard it with intense alarm. What to do she 
did not know. She would not betray the prince, but 
her husband was absent, her house filled with militia 
officers, and shelter within its walls impossible. In 
this dilemma she suggested that Flora should con¬ 
duct the disguised prince to the house of McDonald 
of Kingsburgh, her husband’s steward, a brave and 
intelligent man, in whom she could fully trust. 

Beturning to the cavern, the courageous girl did 
as suggested, and had the good fortune to bring her 
charge through in safety, though more than once 
suspicion was raised. At Kingsburgh the connec¬ 
tion of Flora McDonald with the unfortunate prince 
ended. Her wit and shrewdness had saved him from 


THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 315 

inevitable capture. He was now out of the imme¬ 
diate range of search of his enemies, and must hence¬ 
forth trust to his own devices. 

From Kingsburgh the fugitive sought the island 
of Rasa, led by a guide supplied by McDonald, and 
wearing the dress of a servant. The laird of Rasa 
had taken part in the rebellion, and his domain had 
been plundered in consequence. Food was scarce, 
and Charles suffered great distress. He next fol¬ 
lowed his seeming master to the land of the laird 
of MacKinnon, but, finding himself still in peril, felt 
compelled to leave the islands, and once more landed 
on the Scottish mainland at Loch Nevis. 

Here his peril was as imminent as it had been at 
South TJist. It was the country of Lochiel, Glen¬ 
garry, and other Jacobite chiefs, and was filled with 
soldiers, diligently seeking the leaders of the insur¬ 
rection. Charles and his guides found themselves 
surrounded by foes. A complete line of sentinels, 
who crossed each other upon their posts, inclosed the 
district in which he had sought refuge, and escape 
seemed impossible. The country was rough, bushy, 
and broken j and he and his companions were forced 
to hide in defiles and woodland shelters, where they 
dared not light a fire, and from which they could see 
distant soldiers and hear the calls of the sentinels. 

For two days they remained thus cooped up, not 
knowing at what minute they might be taken, and 
almost hopeless of escape. Fortunately, they dis¬ 
covered a deep and dark ravine that led down from 
the mountains through the fine of sentries. The 
posts of two of these reached to the edges of the 


316 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


ravine, on opposite sides. Down this gloomy and 
rough defile crept noiselessly the fugitives, hearing 
the tread of the sentinels above their heads as they 
passed the point of danger. Ho alarm was given, 
and the hostile line was safely passed. Once more 
the fugitive prince had escaped. 

And now for a considerable time Charles wandered 
through the rough Highland mountains, his clothes 
in rags, often without food and shelter, and not 
daring to kindle a fire; vainly hoping to find a 
French vessel hovering off the coast, and at length 
reaching the mountains of Strathglass. Here he, 
with Glenaladale, his companion at that time, sought 
shelter in a cavern, only to find it the lurking-place 
of a gang of robbers, or rather of outlaws, who had 
taken part in the rebellion, and were here in hiding. 
There were seven of these, who lived on sheep and 
cattle raided in the surrounding country. 

These men looked on the ragged suppliants of their 
good-will at first as fugitives of their own stamp. 
But they quickly recognized, in the most tattered of 
the wanderers, that “ Bonnie Charlie” for whom they 
had risked their lives upon the battle-field, and for 
whom they still felt a passionate devotion. They 
bailed his appearance among them with gladness, 
and expressed themselves as his ardent and faithful 
servants in life and death. 

In this den of robbers the unfortunate prince was 
soon made more comfortable than he had been since 
his flight from Culloden. Their faith was unques¬ 
tionable, their activity in his service unremitting. 
Food was abundant, and, in addition, they volun- 


THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 317 

teered to provide him with decent Clothing, and 
tidings of the movements of the enemy. The first 
was accomplished somewhat ferociously. Two of the 
outlaws met the servant of an officer, on his way to 
Fort Augustus with his master’s baggage. This poor 
fellow they killed, and thus provided their guest with 
a good stock of clothing. Another of them, in dis¬ 
guise, made his way into Fort Augustus. Here he 
learned much about the movements of the troops, 
and, eager to provide the prince with something 
choice in the way of food, brought him back a pen¬ 
nyworth of gingerbread,—a valuable luxury to his 
simple soul. 

For three weeks Charles remained with these hum¬ 
ble but devoted friends. It was not easy to break 
away from their enthusiastic loyalty. 

“ Stay with us,” they said; “ the mountains of gold 
which the government has set upon your head may 
induce some gentleman to betray you, for he can go 
to a distant country and live upon the price of his 
dishonor. But to us there exists no such temptation. 
We can speak no language but our own, we can live 
nowhere but in this country, where, were we to 
injure a hair of your head, the very mountains would 
fall down to crush us to death. Do not leave us, 
then. You will nowhere be so safe as with us.” 

This advice was hardly to Charles’s taste. He pre 
ferred court-life in France to cave-life in Scotland, 
and did not cease his efforts to escape. His pur¬ 
poses were aided by an instance of enthusiastic 
devotion. A young man named McKenzie, son of 
an Edinburgh goldsmith, and a fugitive officer from 

27 * 


318 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


the defeated army, happened to resemble tbe prince 
closely in face and person. He was attacked by a 
party of soldiers, defended himself bravely, and wTien 
mortally wounded, cried out, “ Ah, villains, you have 
slain your prince!” 

Ilis generous design proved successful. His head 
was cut off, and sent to London as that of the 
princely fugitive, which it resembled so closely that 
it was some time before the mistake was discovered. 
This error proved of the utmost advantage to the 
prince. The search was greatly relaxed, and he 
found it safe to leave the shelter of his cave, and 
seek some of his late adherents, of whose move¬ 
ments he had been kept informed. He therefore 
bade farewell to the faithful outlaws, with the ex¬ 
ception of two, who accompanied him as guides and 
guards. 

Safety was not yet assured. It was with much 
difficulty, and at great risk, that he succeeded in 
meeting his lurking adherents, Lochiel and Cluny 
McPherson, who were hiding in Badenoch. Hero 
was an extensive forest, the property of Cluny, ex¬ 
tending over the side of a mountain, called Benalder. 
In a deep thicket of this forest was a well-concealed 
hut, called the Cage. In this the fugitives took up 
their residence, and lived there in some degree of 
comfort and safety, the game of the forest and its 
waters supplying them with abundant food. 

Word was soon after brought to Charles that two 
French frigates had arrived at Lochnanuagh, their 
purpose being to carry him and other fugitives to 
France. The netvs of their arrival spread rapidly 


THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES. 319 

through the district, which held many fugitives from 
Culloden, and on the 20th of September Charles and 
Lochiel, with nearly one hundred others of his party, 
embarked on these friendly vessels, and set sail for 
France. Cluny McPherson refused to go. He re¬ 
mained concealed in his own country for several 
years, and served as the agent by which Charles kept 
up a correspondence with the Highlanders. 

On September 29 the fugitive prince landed near 
Morlaix, in Brittany, having been absent from France 
thirteen months, five of which had been months of 
the most perilous and precarious series of escapes 
and adventures ever recorded of a princely fugitive 
in history or romance. During these months of 
flight and concealment several hundred persons had 
been aware of his movements, but none, high or low, 
noble or outlaw, had a thought of betraying his 
secret. Among them all, the devoted Flora McDon¬ 
ald stands first, and her name has become historically 
famous through her invaluable services to the 
prince. 


TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH 

OF NELSON. 


From the main peak of the flag-ship Victory hung 
out Admiral Nelson’s famous signal, “England ex¬ 
pects every man to do his duty!” an inspiring appeal, 
which has been the motto of English warriors since 
that day. The fleet under the command of the great 
admiral was drawing slowly in upon the powerful 
naval array of France, which lay awaiting him off 
the rocky shore of Cape Trafalgar. It was the morn¬ 
ing of October 21, 1805, the dawn of the greatest 
day in the naval history of Great Britain. 

Let us rapidly trace the events which led up to 
this scene,—the prologue to the drama about to he 
played. The year 1805 was one of threatening peril 
to England. Napoleon was then in the ambitious 
youth of his power, full of dreams of universal em¬ 
pire, his mind set on an invasion of the pestilent 
little island across the channel which should rival 
the “ Invincible Armada” in power and far surpass 
it in performance. 

Gigantic had been his preparations. Holland and 
Belgium were his, their coast-line added to that of 
France. In a hundred harbors all was activity, 
munitions being collected, and flat-bottomed boats 
built, in readiness to carry an invading army to 
320 


THE OLD TEMERAIRE 

















TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON. 321 

England’s shores. The landing of William the Con¬ 
queror in 1066 was to be repeated in 1805. The land 
forces were encamped at Boulogne. Here the arma¬ 
ment was to meet. Meanwhile, the allied fleets of 
France and Spain were to patrol the Channel, one 
part of them to keep Nelson at bay, the other part 
to escort the flotilla bearing the invading army. 

While Napoleon was thus busy, his enemies were 
not idle. The war-ships of England hovered near 
the French ports, watching all movements, doing 
what damage they could. Lord Nelson keenly ob¬ 
served the hostile fleet. To throw him off the track, 
two French naval squadrons set sail for the West 
Indies, as if to attack the British islands there. Nel¬ 
son followed. Suddenly turning, the decoying squad¬ 
rons came back under a press of sail, joined the 
Spanish fleet, and sailed for England. Nelson had 
not returned, but a strong fleet remained, under Sir 
Robert Calder, which was handled in such fashion as 
to drive the hostile ships back to the harbor of Cadiz. 

Such was the state of affairs when Nelson again 
reached England. Full of the spirit of battle, he 
hoisted his flag on the battle-ship Victory, and set 
sail in search of his foes. There were twenty-seven 
line-of-battle ships and four frigates under his com¬ 
mand. The French fleet, under Admiral Villeneuve, 
number thirty-three sail of the line and seven frig¬ 
ates. Napoleon, dissatisfied with the disinclination 
of his fleet to meet that of England, and confident 
in its strength, issued positive orders, and Ville¬ 
neuve sailed out of the harbor of Cadiz, and took 
position in two crescent-shaped lines off Cape Trafal- 

II .—V 


322 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


gar. As soon as Nelson saw him he came on with 
the eagerness of a lion in sight of its prey, his fleet 
likewise in two lines, his signal flags fluttering with 
the inspiring order, “ England expects every man to 
do his duty.” 

The wind was from the west, blowing in light 
breezes; a long, heavy swell ruffled the sea. Down 
came the great ships, Collingwood, in the Eoyal 
Sovereign, commanding the lee-line; Nelson, in the 
Victory, leading the weather division. One order 
Nelson had given, which breathes the inflexible 
spirit of the man. “His admirals and captains, 
knowing his object to be that of a close and decisive 
action, would supply any deficiency of signals, and 
act accordingly. In case signals cannot be seen or 
clearly understood, no captain can do wrong if he 
places his ship alongside that of an enemy." 

Nelson wore that day his admiral’s frock-coat, 
bearing on the breast four stars, the emblems of tho 
orders with which he had been invested. His officers 
beheld these ornaments with apprehension. There 
were riflemen on the French ships. He was offering 
himself as a mark for their aim. Yet none dare 
suggest that he should remove or cover the stars. 
“ In honor I gained them, and in honor I will die 
with them,” he had said on a previous occasion. 

The long swell set in to the bay of Cadiz. Tho 
English ships moved with it, all sail set, a light 
southwest wind filling their canvas. Before them 
lay the French ships, with the morning sun on their 
sails, presenting a stately and beautiful appearance. 

On came the English fleet, like a flock of giant 


TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON. 323 

birds swooping low across the ocean. Like a white 
flock at rest awaited the French three-deckers. Col- 
lingwood’s line was the first to come into action, 
Nelson steering more to the north, that the flight of 
the enemy to Cadiz, in case of their defeat, should 
be prevented. Straight for the centre of the foe- 
man’s line steered the Loyal Sovereign, taking her 
station side by side with the Santa Anna, which she 
engaged at the muzzle of her guns. 

“ What would Nelson give to be here!” exclaimed 
Collingwood, in delight. 

“ See how that noble fellow, Collingwood, carries 
his ship into action!” responded Nelson from the deck 
of the Victory. 

It was not long before the two fleets were in hot 
action, the British ships following Collingwood’s lead 
in coming to close quarters with the enemy. As tho 
Victory approached, the French ships opened with 
broadsides upon her, in hopes of disabling her before 
she could close with them. Not a shot was returned, 
though men were falling on her decks until fifty lay 
dead or wounded, and her main-top-mast, with all 
her studding-sails and booms, had been shot away. 

“This is too warm work, Hardy, to last,” said 
Nelson, with a smile, as a splinter tore the buckle 
from the captain’s shoe. 

Twelve o’clock came and passed. The Victory 
was now well in. Firing from both sides as she 
advanced, she ran in side by side with the Redoubt¬ 
able, of the French fleet, both ships pouring broad¬ 
sides into each other. On the opposite side of the 
Redoubtable came up the English ship Tcmeraire, 


324 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


while another ship of the enemy lay on the opposite 
side of the latter. 

The four ships lay head to head and side to side, 
as close as if they had been moored together, the 
muzzles of their guns almost touching. So close 
were they that the middle- and lower-deck guns of 
the Yictory had to be depressed and fired with light 
charges, lest their balls should pierce through the foe 
and injure the Temeraire. And lest the Redoubtable 
should take fire from the lower-deck guns, whose 
muzzles touched her side when they were run out, 
the fireman of each gun stood ready with a bucket 
of water to dash into the hole made by the shot. 
While the starboard guns of the Yictory were thus 
employed, her larboard guns were in full play upon 
the Bucentaure and the huge Santissima Trinidad. 
This warm work was repeated through the entire 
fleet. Never had been closer and hotter action. 

The fight had reached its hottest when there came 
a tragical event that rendered the victory at Traf¬ 
algar, glorious as it was, a loss to England. The Re¬ 
doubtable, after her first broadside, had closed her 
lower-deck ports, lest the English should board her 
through them. She did not fire another great gun 
during the action. But her tops, like those of her 
consorts, were filled with riflemen, whose balls swept 
the decks of the assailing ships. One of these, fired 
from the mizzen-top of the Redoubtable, not fifteen 
yards from where Nelson stood, struck him on the 
left shoulder, piercing the epaulette. It was about 
quarter after one, in the heat of the action. He fell 
upon his face. 


TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON. 325 

“ They have done for me, at last, Hardy,” he said, 
as his captain ran to his assistance. 

“ I hope not!” cried Hardy. 

“ Yes,” he replied; “ my backbone is shot through.” 

A thorough sailor to the last, he saw, as they were 
carrying him below, that the tiller ropes which had 
been shot away were not replaced, and ordered that 
this should be immediately attended to. Then, that 
he might not be seen by the crew, he spread his 
handkerchief over his face and his stars. But for 
his needless risk in revealing them before, he might 
have lived. 

The cockpit was crowded with the wounded and 
dying men. Over their bodies he was carried, and 
laid upon a pallet in the midshipmen’s berth. Tho 
wound was mortal. A brief examination showed 
this. He had known it from the first, and said to 
the surgeon,— 

“Leave me, and give your services to those for 
whom there is some hope. You can do nothing for 
me.” 

Such was the fact. All that could be done was to 
fan him, and relieve his intense thirst with lemonade. 
On deck the fight continued with undiminished fury. 
The English star was in the ascendant. Ship after 
ship of the enemy struck, the cheers of the crew of 
the Victory heralding each surrender, while every 
cheer brought a smile of joy to the face of the dying- 
veteran. 

“ Will no one bring Hardy to me ?” he repeatedly 
cried. “ He must be killed! He is surely dead 1” 

In truth, the captain dared not leave the deck. 

28 


326 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


More than an hour elapsed before he was able to 
come down. He grasped in silence the hand of the 
dying admiral. 

“ Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us?’' asked 
Nelson, eagerly. 

“ Yery well,” was the answer. “Ten ships have 
struck; but five of the van have tacked, and show 
an intention to bear down upon the Victory. I have 
called two or three of our fresh ships around, and 
have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.” 

“ I hope none of our ships have struck,” said 
Nelson. 

“ There is no fear of that,” answered Hardy. 

Then came a moment’s silence, and then Nelson 
spoke of himself. 

“ I am a dead man, Hardy,” he said. “ I am going 
fast; it will be all over with me soon. Come nearer 
to me. Let my dear Lady Hamilton have my hair 
and all other things belonging to me.” 

“ I hope it is not so bad as that,” said Hardy, with 
much emotion. “ Hr. Beatty must yet hold out some 
hope of life.” 

“Oh, no, that is impossible,” said Nelson. “My 
back is shot through : Beatty will tell you so.” 

Captain Hardy grasped his hand again, the tears 
standing in his eyes, and then hurried on deck to 
hide the emotion he could scarcely repress. 

Life slowly left the frame of the dying hero: every 
minute he was nearer death. Sensation vanished 
below his breast. Ho made the surgeon test and 
acknowledge this. 

“ You know I am gone,” he said. “ I know it. I 


TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON. 327 

feel something rising in my breast which tells me 
so.” 

“ Is your pain great ?” asked Beatty. 

“ So great, that I wish I were dead. Yet,” ho con¬ 
tinued, in lower tones. “ one would like to live a little 
longer, too.” 

A few moments of silence passed; then he said in 
the same low tone,— 

“ What would become of my poor Lady Hamilton 
if she knew my situation ?” 

Fifteen minutes elapsed before Captain Hardy re¬ 
turned. On doing so, he warmly grasped Nelson’s 
hand, and in tones of joy congratulated him on the 
victory which he had come to announce. 

“How many of the enemy are taken, I cannot 
say,” he remarked; “ the smoke hides them; but we 
have not less than fourteen or fifteen.” 

“ That’s well,” cried Nelson, “ but I bargained for 
twenty. Anchor, Hardy, anchor!” he commanded, 
in a stronger voice. 

“ Will not Admiral Collingwood take charge of the 
fleet?” hinted Hardy. 

“Not while I live, Hardy,” answered Nelson, 
with an effort to lift himself in his bed. “ Do you 
anchor.” 

Hardy started to obey this last order of his beloved 
commander. In a low tone Nelson called him back. 

“ Don’t throw me overboard, Hardy,” he pleaded. 
“ Take me home that I may be buried by my parents, 
unless the king shall order otherwise. And take 
care of my dear Lady Hamilton, Hardy; take care 
of poor Lady Hamilton. Kiss me, Hardy.” 


328 


HISTORICAL TALES 


The weeping captain knelt and kissed him. 

“ Now I am satisfied,” said the dying hero. “ Thank 
God, I have done my duty.” 

Hardy stood and looked down in sad silence upon 
him, then again knelt and kissed him on the fore¬ 
head. 

“ Who is that ?” asked Nelson. 

“ It is I, Hardy,” was the reply. 

“ God bless you, Hardy,” came in tones just above 
a whisper. 

Hardy turned and left. He could bear no more. 
He had looked his last on his old commander. 

“ I wish I had not left the deck,” said Nelson; “ for 
I see I shall soon be gone.” 

It was true ; life was fast ebbing. 

“ Doctor,” he said to the chaplain, “ I have not been 
a great sinner.” He was silent a moment, and then 
continued, “ Kemember that I leave Lady Hamilton 
and my daughter Horatio as a legacy to my country.” 

Words now came with difficulty. 

11 Thank God, I have done my duty,” he said, re¬ 
peating these words again and again. They were 
his last words. He died at half-past four, three and 
a quarter hours after he had been wounded. 

Meanwhile, Nelson’s prediction had been realized: 
twenty French ships had struck their flags. The 
victory of Trafalgar was complete; Napoleon’s hope 
of invading England was at an end. Nelson, dying, 
had saved his country by destroying the fleet of her 
foes. Never had a sun set in greater glory than did 
the life of this hero of the navy of Great Britain t 
the ruler of the waves. 


THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY. 


The ssntinels on the ramparts of Jelalabad, a for¬ 
tified post held by the British in Afghanistan, looking 
out over the plain that extended northward and 
westward from the town, saw a singular-looking 
person approaching. He rode a pony that seemed 
so jaded with travel that it could scarcely lift a foot 
to continue, its head drooping low as it dragged 
slowly onward. The traveller seemed in as evil 
plight as his horse. His head was bent forward 
upon his breast, the rein had fallen from his nerve¬ 
less grasp, and he swayed in the saddle as if he could 
barely retain his seat. As he came nearer, and lifted 
his face for a moment, he was seen to be frightfully 
pale and haggard, with the horror of an untold 
tragedy in his bloodshot eyes. Who was he ? An 
Englishman, evidently, perhaps a messenger from the 
army at Cabul. The officers of the fort, notified of 
his approach, ordered that the gates should be opened. 
In a short time more man and horse were within the 
walls of the town. 

So pitiable and woe-begone a spectacle none there 
had ever beheld. The man seemed almost a corpse 
on horseback. He had fairly to be lifted from his 
saddle, and borne inward to a place of shelter and 

28 * 329 


330 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


repose, while the animal was scarcely able to make 
its way to the stable to which it was led. As the 
traveller rested, eager questions ran through the 
garrison. Who was he? IIow came he in such a 
condition ? What had he to tell of the army in the 
field? Hid his coming in this sad plight portend 
some dark disaster ? 

This curiosity was shared by the officer in com¬ 
mand of the fort. Giving his worn-out guest no long 
time to recover, he plied him with inquiries. 

“You are exhausted,” he said. “I dislike to dis 
turb you, but I beg leave to ask you a few ques¬ 
tions.” 

“ Go on, sir ; I can answer,” said the traveller, in a 
weary tone. 

“Ho you bring a message from General Elphin- 
stone,—from the army ?” 

“I bring no message. There is no army,—or, 
rather, I am the army,” was the enigmatical reply. 

“ You the army ? I do not understand you.” 

“ I represent the army. The others are gone,— 
dead, massacred, prisoners,—man, woman, and child. 
I, Hoctor Brydon, am the army,—all that remains 
of it.” 

The commander heard him in astonishment and 
horror. General Elphinstone had seventeen thou¬ 
sand soldiers and camp-followers in his camp at 
Cabul. “ Hid Hr. Brydon mean to say-” 

“ They are all gone,” was the feeble reply. “ I am 
left; all the others are slain. You may well look 
frightened, sir; you would be heart-sick with horror 
had you gone through my experience. I have seen 



THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY. 


331 


an army slaughtered before my eyes, and am hero 
alone to tell it.” 

It was true ; the army had vanished; an event had 
happened almost without precedent in the history of 
the world, unless we instance the burying of the 
army of Cambyses in the African desert. When Dr. 
Brydon was sufficiently rested and refreshed he told 
his story. It is the story we have here to repeat. 

In the summer of 1841 the British army under 
General Elphinstone lay in cantonments near the 
city of Cabul, the capital of Afghanistan, in a position 
far from safe or well chosen. They were a mile and 
a half from the citadel,—the Bala Hissar,—with a 
river between. Every corner of their cantonments 
was commanded by hills or Afghan forts. Even 
their provisions were beyond their reach, in case of 
attack, being stored in a fort at some distance from 
the cantonments. They were in the heart of a 
hostile population. General Elphinstone, trusting 
too fully in the puppet of a khan who had been set 
up by British bayonets, had carelessly kept his com¬ 
mand in a weak and untenable position. 

The general was old and in bad health; by no 
means the man for the emergency. lie was con¬ 
trolled by bad advisers, who thought only of return¬ 
ing to India, and discouraged the strengthening of 
the fortress. The officers lost heart on seeing the 
supineness of their leader. The men were weary of 
incessant watching, annoyed by the insults of the 
natives, discouraged by frequent reports of the death 
of comrades, who had been picked off by roving 
enemies. The ladies alone retained confidence, occu- 


332 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


pying themselves in the culture of their gardens, 
which, in the delightful summer climate of that 
situation, rewarded their labors with an abundance 
of flowers. 

As time went on the situation grew rapidly worse. 
Akbar Khan, the leading spirit among the hostile 
Afghans, came down from the north and occupied 
the Khoord Cabul Pass,—the only way back to 
Hindustan. Ammunition was failing, food was de¬ 
creasing, the enemy were growing daily stronger 
and more aggressive. Affairs had come to such a 
pass that but one of two things remained to do,—to 
leave the cantonments and seek shelter in the citadel 
till help should arrive, or to endeavor to march back 
to India. 

On the 23d of December the garrison was alarmed 
by a frightful example of boldness and ferocity in 
the enemy. Sir William Macnaughten, the English 
envoy, who had left the works to treat with the 
Afghan chiefs, was seized by Akbar Khan and mur¬ 
dered on the spot, his head, with its green spectacles, 
being held up in derision to the soldiers within the 
works. 

The British were now “ advised” by the Afghans 
to go back to India. There was, in truth, nothing 
else to do. They were starving where they were. 
If they should fight their way to the citadel, they 
would be besieged there without food. They must 
go, whatever the risk or hardships. On the 6th of 
January the fatal march began,—a march of four 
thousand five hundred soldiers and twelve thousand 
camp-followers, besides women and children, through 


THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY. 333 

a mountainous country, filled with savage foes, and 
in severe winter weather. 

The first day’s march took them but five miles 
from the works, the evacuation taking place so 
slowly that it was two o’clock in the morning before 
the last of the force came up. It had been a march 
of frightful conditions. Attacked by the Afghans 
on every side, hundreds of the fugitives perished in 
those first five dreadful miles. As the advance body 
waited in the snow for those in the rear to join them, 
the glare of flames from the burning cantonments 
told that the evacuation had been completed, and 
that the whole multitude was now at the mercy of 
its savage foes. It was evident that they had a 
frightful gantlet to run through the fire of the 
enemy and the winter’s chilling winds. The snow 
through which they had slowly toiled was reddened 
with blood all the way back to Cabul. Baggage 
was abandoned, and men and women alike pushed 
forward for their lives, some of them, in the haste 
of flight, but half-clad, few sufficiently protected 
from the severe cold. 

The succeeding days were days of massacre and 
horror. The fierce hill-tribes swarmed around the 
troops, attacking them in front, flank, and rear, 
pouring in their fire from every point of vantage, 
slaying them in hundreds, in thousands, as they 
moved hopelessly on. The despairing men fought 
bravely. Many of the foe suffered for their temerity. 
But they were like prairie-wolves around the dying 
bison; the retreating force lay helpless in their hands; 
two new foes took the place of every one that fell. 


334 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


Each day’s horrors surpassed those of the last. 
The camp-followers died in hundreds from cold and 
starvation, their frost-bitten feet refusing to support 
them. Crawling in among the rugged rocks that 
bordered the road, they lay there helplessly await¬ 
ing death. The soldiers fell in hundreds. It grew 
worse as they entered the contracted mountain-pass 
through which their road led. Here the ferocious 
foe swarmed among the rocks, and poured death 
from the heights upon the helpless fugitives. It 
was impossible to dislodge them. Natural breast¬ 
works commanded every foot of that terrible road. 
The hardy Afghan mountaineers climbed with the 
agility of goats over the hill-sides, occupying hun¬ 
dreds of points which the soldiers could not reach. 
It was a carnival of slaughter. Nothing remained 
for the helpless fugitives but to push forward with 
all speed through that frightful mountain-pass and 
gain as soon as possible the open ground beyond. 

Few gained it. On the fourth day from Cabul 
there were but two hundred and seventy soldiers 
left. The fifth day found the seventeen thousand 
fugitives reduced to five thousand. A day more, 
and these five thousand were nearly all slain. Only 
twenty men remained of the great body of fugitives 
which had left Cabul less than a week before. This 
handful of survivors was still relentlessly pursued. 
A barrier detained them for a deadly interval under 
the fire of the foe, and eight of the twenty died in 
seeking to cross it. The pass was traversed, but the 
army was gone. A dozen worn-out fugitives were 
all that remained alive. 


THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY. 


335 


On they struggled towards Jelalabad, death fol¬ 
lowing them still. They reached the last town on 
their road; but six of them had fallen. These six 
were starving. They had not tasted food for days. 
Some peasants offered them bread. They devoured 
it like famished wolves. But as they did so the in¬ 
habitants of the town seized their arms and assailed 
them. Two of them were cut down. The others 
fled, but were hotly pursued. Three of the four 
were overtaken and slain within four miles of Jela- 
labad. Dr. Brydon alone remained, and gained the 
fort alone, the sole survivor, as he believed and re¬ 
ported, of the seventeen thousand fugitives. The 
Afghan chiefs had boasted that they would allow 
only one man to live, to warn the British to meddlo 
no more with Afghanistan. Their boast seemed lit¬ 
erally fulfilled. Only one man had traversed in 
safety that “ valley of the shadow of death.” 

Fortunately, there were more living than Dr. Bry¬ 
don was aware of. Akbar Khan had offered to 
save the ladies and children if the married and 
wounded officers were delivered into his hands. This 
was done. General Elphinstone was among the 
prisoners, and died in captivity, a relief to himself 
and his friends from the severe account to which the 
government would have been obliged to call him. 

Kow for the sequel to this story of suffering and 
slaughter. The invasion of Afghanistan by the 
English had been for the purpose of protecting the 
Indian frontier. A prince, Shah Soojah, friendly to 
England, was placed on the throne. This prince was 
repudiated by the Afghan tribes, and to their bitter 


336 


HISTORICAL TALES. 


and savage hostility was due the result which we 
have briefly described. It was a result with which 
the British authorities were not likely to remain 
satisfied. The news of the massacre sent a thrill of 
horror through the civilized world. Betribution was 
the sole thought in British circles in India. A strong 
force was at once collected to punish the Afghans 
and rescue the prisoners. Under General Pollock it 
fought its way through the Khyher Pass and reached 
Jelalabad. Thence it advanced to Cabul, the soldiers, 
infuriated by the sight of the bleaching skeletons 
that thickly lined the roadway, assailing the Afghans 
with a ferocity equal to their own. Wherever armed 
Afghans were met death was their portion. No¬ 
where could they stand against the maddened Eng¬ 
lish troops. Filled with terror, they fled for safety 
to the mountains, the invading force having terribly 
revenged their slaughtered countrymen. 

It next remained to rescue the prisoners. They 
had been carried about from fort to fort, suffering 
many hardships and discomforts, but not being other¬ 
wise maltreated. They were given up to the British, 
after the recapture of Cabul, with the hope that 
this would satisfy these terrible avengers. It did so. 
The fortifications of Cabul were destroyed, and the 
British army was withdrawn from the country. 
England had paid bitterly for the mistake of occupy¬ 
ing it. The bones of a slaughtered army paved the 
road that led to the Afghan capital. 


THE END. 






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acme library card pocket 
Made by LIBRARY BUREAU, Boston 


KEEP YOUR CARD IN THIS POCKET 























































